


An Armoury Officer’s Tale

by Setcheti



Series: An Armoury Officer's Tale [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setcheti/pseuds/Setcheti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was <em>Sir</em> Malcolm mainly by default, as his father had never gotten around to formally disinheriting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Armoury Officer’s Tale

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by "A Knight's Tale" due to it being repeatedly re-run on cable one summer and just as repeatedly re-watched by my children.

The messenger hurriedly threaded through the crowded ‘streets’ of the tent city that was the residing place of the knights gathered for the tourney.  This late in the afternoon, the day’s matches all behind them, it was bustling with activity as equerries and squires, servants and sycophants hurried here and there attending to the needs of their masters or just idling in each other’s company now that their day’s work was done.  The messenger would be joining them at the nearest tavern later this night, while his own master was feasting and drinking at the great hall – but first he had to find someone and pass on his master’s message.

Away at street’s end and near to the well in case of fire were the blacksmiths’ tents, and it was here that the messenger spotted the man he’d been searching for, watching a cracked chest plate being mended with a critical eye.  The messenger released a silent sigh, straightening himself; this was a knight, after all, and just because his master held the man in contempt didn’t mean the servant was allowed the same latitude.  Not that he would have been aught but respectful anyway.  Sir Malcolm was unfailingly correct, always, and would likely just ignore him were he less so himself, but the knight’s squire and his blacksmith were both good-sized men who wouldn’t be at all averse to seeking out an impertinent messenger during the night’s revelry and teaching him his place.  That thought lent a bit of a squeak to his voice as he addressed his target.  “Sir Malcolm?”

The knight turned his head slightly and spared him a small, weary smile; this meeting was a regular occurrence, at least once per every tourney wherein he and Lord Grath encountered each other.  “Brannon,” he replied.  “You’ve a message for me, I take it?”

“Yes, my lord.”  Lord Grath had told Brannon not to call the knight that, but at the moment he was more afraid of the blacksmith who was doubtless marking his every word and action than he was of his master who was much farther away.  He handed over the small roll of parchment with a sketchy but still respectful bow.  “Will you reply, sir?”

“Most likely not.”  The knight unrolled the parchment, read the brief contents with raised eyebrow and then held it out to the blacksmith, who paused in his hammering to take it and toss it onto the coals.  “Waste of paper, that – you may tell him I said so, if you require comment of mine to relay to spare you his ill-humor.”

Brannon bowed again, deeper this time.  “Thank you, Sir Malcolm.”

The knight sighed as the messenger hurried away, wondering if it was as hard for Grath’s man to use his title as it was for him to hear it.  He was _Sir_ Malcolm mainly by default, as his father had never gotten around to formally disinheriting him.  Malcolm assumed that to be because of the king; Lord Stewart would have to go before the king to prove his case if he wanted to cast off his only son and heir, and since King Jonathan himself loved the tourney the lord’s main complaint was not likely to be well received.  And the  nature of their other…differences were such that Malcolm’s father would die before admitting them in front of the king and his whole court.

It was a considerable shame to Lord Stewart that the last son of the house of Reed, a house whose naval history stretched back a hundred years, was afflicted with a deep and abiding fear of the sea.  Not to mention that that same son had been disrespectful enough to take after his mother’s family and not his father’s, except for his eyes; Malcolm had managed to inherit the farseeing storm-gray eyes of the proud Reeds, even if he hadn’t captured their height or their ruddy coloring.  Malcolm was dark of hair and fair of skin, and a full hand shorter than his father.  Constant training for the tourneys had layered his slender frame with hard muscle, though, and he was quick of both mind and movement although he could be patient as a grave if it suited him.  Much like his blacksmith, although the two men were otherwise as different in manner as night and day.

He’d met Tucker nearly three years past, on the road of all places, and the memory made him smile.  The man had been set upon by robbers – or so he claimed – and had been limping down the road wearing nothing but his skin.  He hadn’t asked for assistance, but Travis had hailed him as he’d passed the wagon and the resulting conversation had revealed his situation and prompted Malcolm to offer an exchange of services.  Tucker had admitted to having some skill as a smith, and after an offer of clothing as an incentive he’d been full willing to throw his lot in with theirs and take over the care of the knight’s battered armor and the horse’s shoes and tack.  Luckily Travis’ clothing had fit him well enough.  Tucker, who preferred to be called Trip for reasons he wouldn’t explain, was several inches taller and broader than Malcolm, and even had the clothing fit the broody storm-hues the somber knight favored would hardly have suited for the smith was colored like a summer day with burnished hair and sky-blue eyes – and a temperament to match.

Mostly Malcolm was glad to have taken on Tucker, for although the man’s handsome face and winning manner sometimes caused trouble in this tavern or that his skills at the forge also saw to providing the three of them with more of an income than had been wont to come their way from the tourneys.  Tucker for his part seemed glad of their companionship and showed no signs of wanting the arrangement to change; he’d quickly settled into place as a genial friend, and a trustworthy one he’d proved himself to be time and time again as they’d traveled from one tournament to another over the years.

The knight shook off his reminiscences when the ringing of hammer against steel changed tone and focused his attention back on the chest plate the man he’d been thinking about was hammering back into shape on the anvil.  A glint lit his storm gray eyes, the mischief the tall smith had awakened in him during their association coming to the fore.  “You missed a spot.”

The hammering didn’t change its tempo.  “Oh did I, m’lord?  Perhaps you’d rather do this yourself?”

“Certainly.”  Malcolm peeled himself away from the rough wooden table he’d been leaning against.  “After all, I was fixing it before you came along, wasn’t I?”

“Not another step!”  Malcolm froze, and Tucker spared him a scowl.  “You’re not allowed in my forge an’ you know it – I know damn good and well who was fixin’ the armor, you’re lucky I was able to salvage it at all.  And your poor horse…”

“Enough, peasant,” the knight drawled, a hint of an edge coming into his voice, but he resumed his lean and folded his arms across his chest.  “It never ceases to amaze me that you aren’t striped head to heels from the lash, with a wit like that.  You’ve no more sense of your place than a toad in a ditch – perhaps less.”

The smith chuckled, neither offended nor cowed.  “Place is but blood, Mal – and mine’s as red as yours.”  He gave the piece he’d been working on one final blow and then lifted it from the anvil and held it into the light, examining it from all angles before striding across the space to hang it on a waiting peg.  “Now where’s that leg guard you broke the strap on?  If I don’t pound out the dent you’ll be as lame as that poor nag of yours just from walkin’ ‘cross the square.”

Malcolm handed over the requested piece, making a show of not allowing any part of himself to enter the forge area.  “Travis said he’ll fix the strap once you’re done, he’s afraid a stray spark might weaken the leather.”

“He’s right, it could.”  A glint of blue flickered up to Malcolm from beneath lowered lashes dark with sweat.  “Forgive us for tryin’ to keep our master alive and whole, and thereby keep ourselves eatin’.”

Malcolm snorted.  “Oh please – we eat more because of your hammer than my lance.  I may live for the thrill of the tourney, but it’s no profession for a man who wants to dine well, or even often for that matter.”

“As if you weren’t top of the lists right now,” Tucker returned.  “We haven’t missed a meal in a good long while, and I haven’t had to cobble together broken armor with scrap stolen from the trash heap either.  You’re as successful as a man gets in this arena, I believe, and so have nothin’ to complain about.”  Another glance up.  “Although I know you’ll find somethin’ just to be difficult.”

“Give me my leg guard,” Malcolm ordered him, fighting a grin.  “I’d like a chance to clean up a bit before the feast tonight, if you don’t mind, and standing ‘round here listening to your impertinence isn’t getting it done.”

The smith suddenly sobered, handing over the repaired piece.  “Lady T’pol will be there?”

“Yes, she will – she and her father are following the circuit, like you didn’t know that.  And she sent her maid to ask Travis if I was coming and what color I’d be wearing, just like the last two times.”  He buffed  the piece of armor fussily with his sleeve, looking at his reflection in the distorting metal and smirking.  “She loves me.”

“She hasn’t said that,” Tucker warned quietly.  Malcolm scowled at him – a real scowl this time – and the smith raised his hands placatingly.  “I just don’t want to see her make a fool of you if you start readin’ too much into what she says, that’s all.  She’d call you on it, you know she would.”

“I’m her chosen champion,” the knight told him in a hard, cool voice, a far cry from the friendly bantering tone of a scant few moments before.  “I’m not ‘reading’ anything into the situation that isn’t there for everyone to see; M’lady T’pol has made plain her favor at every banquet for the last six months.”

“That she has.”  The smith didn’t sound as pleased by that as his master, but he also didn’t press the matter further.  “Is there anything else you want me to do, m’lord?”

“Help Travis ready things for tomorrow when you’re done closing up the forge,” Malcolm told him.  “I won’t be needing him tonight, so the two of you are free once the work is done.”  Tucker’s ‘yes sir’ followed him out of the tent…and lent a slight chill to the late afternoon sunshine.  Malcolm forced himself to shake it off.  What did a lowborn blacksmith who consorted with barmaids and serving girls know about ladies and their ways? he lied to himself.  The man simply didn’t like Lady T’Pol, or perhaps he was afraid to lose his place if Malcolm married her and left the tourney circuit.

Yes, that was it.  He forced himself to chuckle, decided that he would do what he could to set Tucker’s fears to rest in the future and then forcibly turned his mind to how best to dance attendance on his lady at the feast without being too obvious about it – Lady T’Pol was very proper, very reserved, and overt displays of his regard would only vex her.  Malcolm thought even his father would approve of her wholeheartedly, and that fantasy made him so lighthearted he wanted to sing.  Perhaps someday he could once again be welcomed home in the House of Reed, with such a wife as she on his arm.

 

That evening the local taverns were abuzz with all the servants and squires and workmen whose services were not required at the feast.  In the back of one dim room, sitting with his feet up in a closed corner, Malcolm’s squire Travis surveyed the crowd from over the top of his ale tankard.  “It’s a quiet night, no fights as of yet.”

“The night is young as of yet,” Tucker snorted from his seat opposite.  He was already on his second ale.  “There’ll be fights aplenty before the dawn, mark my words.”

“Then I would say we should be back to our tent before the sun breaks over the walls of the city,” Travis returned.  He was a young man, tall and strong and marked by his smooth dark skin and fine features as being of Moorish descent.  Normally his bright, easy manner was a match for Tucker’s, but tonight his companion’s mood was dark as an open pit and he was fast losing patience with it.  “You know, at present our master’s horse would be better company than you, Trip.”

The older man sighed.  “Most likely.”  He looked up, a hint of apology on his handsome face.  “I worry for our master, Travis.  This… _lady_ of his, she plays with him.”

“You don’t know that…”

“I do!”  Tucker almost slammed his half-empty mug into the tabletop and then thought better of it when he saw curious eyes turning their way – one pair of them Brannon’s.  “He believes she loves him, I can see marriage in his eyes when he speaks of her,” he continued in a lower voice.  “But she’s never said those words to him, never said aught about any other choosin’ save the one that selected him as her champion in the lists.  She’ll hurt him, Travis, she’s usin’ him for sport and will crush him when she tires of it.”

Travis had no answer for that.  “You fought with him today…over this?” he asked quietly.

“He said she loved him; I only told him that she had not said those words and he should be careful.”  Tucker took another drink.  “He wouldn’t hear me, he grew angry.”

“He loves her,” the squire shrugged.  “Whether you are right or no about the lady, _his_ feelings are true and dear to him.”  He drew a line with his finger through a ring of liquid on the table.  “You know, he thinks you jealous, and fearful for your place should he marry her.”

“Should she actually agree to marry him, I would dance at his weddin’,” Tucker said flatly.  “Even though I’d be celebratin’ his eventual misery, tied to such a cold shrew as that, I’d be happy because he was happy.  An’ I’d stay by his side however he might need me, be it as groomsman or gardener or just impertinent blacksmith; Mal is our friend and an honorable man, he’d no more cast either of us off than he would cut off his own arm.”

“That I know as well.”  Travis drained his tankard and motioned to the barmaid for another.  “But how can you be sure in your mind that you, who have had so little contact with the lady in question, know her nature better than our master who loves her with all his heart?”

Tucker drowned his sigh in another swig of ale.  “Because I do _not_ love her, Travis,” he said.  “Our master’s heart is in his eyes when he looks at her; I am not so blinded.”

 

There was one day more remaining of the Luxborg tourney, a day in which Malcolm finished his duty by soundly trouncing Lord Grath – again – and then retired to his tent while Travis and Trip packed up their things and prepared to move on.  Normally Malcolm wasn’t one to lie about like the other knights, resting on his laurels while his men did all the work, but he’d taken a fairly hard blow in the next to last match and consequently Travis would not allow him to lift anything heavier than a flagon of wine, notably the flagon of strong winter red which Trip had provided with a wink and a stern admonishment to stay put.

The flagon was feeling very heavy just then in spite of the amount by which he’d already lightened it, and Malcolm  put it down with a sigh he would never have released had he not been alone in the tent.  He’d taken the blow to please Lady T’Pol, who had complained the night before that he was sometimes too perfect, that if he were to be truly honest with her then he should allow her to see him falter.  He flexed the sore shoulder again and smiled at the pain.  Proof, she’d asked for proof of his feelings and he’d provided it.  What was a little pain if it was in payment for his lady love’s pleasure in him?

Of course, he wasn’t going to share that particular ‘arrangement’ with anyone any time soon.  Although he thought Tucker might suspect, if the look the man had given him when the injury occurred was anything to go by.  Malcolm made a face.  Well, at least Trip had held his tongue this time.  Perhaps eventually he would come to accept Lady T’Pol, to understand how much Malcolm felt for her and how delicate her high-born sensibilities were.  Maybe after the championship they could settle the matter between them.

The harvest season was fast approaching, and with it the championship tourney which would settle the round of matches for the duration of the winter and serve as a sending-off of sorts for all the knights who had a home hearth to welcome them.  Malcolm was not one of these; he had picked several likely places where he and his men might lay over the winter and work for their keep, and as soon as the last tourney was finished they would set out on the roads to seek a hearth of their own choosing.  He was certain of their welcome in any of the places he’d marked as suitable, more for Tucker’s skill at the forge than anything else.  The year before they had taken over the running of an inn while the owner suffered through the mending of a badly broken leg, and the three of them had passed a pleasant winter.

Before they could set out to find an equally happy situation, however, they had a tourney to win.  Which meant traveling to  London , ferried across the wide, cold Channel.

Malcolm forced himself to help as much as he was allowed to ready himself for the journey, barely hesitated when it came time to lead his nervous horse aboard the sturdy ferryboat…but was petrified with terror when the craft actually began to slide across the choppy waters.  Tucker settled himself solidly on one side of him and Travis on the other, both men knowing of his unreasoning fear of the water, but in spite of their protective nearness he began to shake in spite of himself at the thought of the hungry depths that surrounded him.  Dimly over his bowed head he heard the voice of his blacksmith.  “Travis, you have the flask I gave you?”

A shuffle.  “I kept it close, as you asked.  But Trip, are you sure…”

“Mal’s honor is his life,” Tucker said softly.  “I would not see him set foot on the soil of his birth after so long away with this fear a weight of shame hangin’ over him.”  There was a soft pop as a cork was drawn.  “And the apothecary promised me this potion wouldn’t harm him.”

“It may harm _you_ ,” Travis chuckled quietly, “when he regains his reason and realizes what you’ve been about, honor or no.”

“I won’t complain.”  The knight felt cool glass being pressed into his trembling hands and he clung to the smooth surface instinctively.  “Drink this, Mal,” Tucker told him.  “Drink, and we’ll be in England before you know it.”

Malcolm drank.  The liquid that flowed into his mouth was thick and honeyed, but with a bitter taste of some exotic spice that wrinkled his nose and burned at the back of his throat.  He was only mildly surprised when he noticed that his eyelids were refusing to open, but that didn’t at all displease him – it meant he couldn’t see the water.  The last thing he was aware of was Tucker’s voice informing someone nearby that his master would doubtless sleep through their passage, as the journey across the water was tedious to him.  That selfsame master fell asleep wondering at the lie: he’d made the crossing exactly once in his life, having not been back in England in near to four years. 

A rough shake woke him, and Travis’ smooth voice in his ear whispered, “My lord, we’ve arrived.”

Malcolm drew himself out of the lingering fog of his not-so-natural sleep and sat up.  He’d been lying on his cloak, and in the dim predawn light he could see the figures of the other passengers shuffling off the ferry toward the torch-lit landing.  He gained his feet with Travis’ aid and rubbed sleep out of his eyes, then walked as steadily as he could over to his horse and took the reins from Tucker.  “Bloody nuisance, this Channel crossing,” he grumbled, just loud enough for the other passengers and the ferryman to hear.  “What a bothersome Trip.”  He slanted his gaze up to catch Tucker’s, smirking slightly when the blue eyes widened in surprise at his comment, and then led the horse off onto the landing and up the bank onto the firm reassurance of English soil.  For good or ill, they were home.

 

The setting up of a tent city was much the same no matter where one went, but this was London and the king was in residence so all and sundry were putting themselves to the effort of making sure everything was as neat and tidy as it could possibly be.  Malcolm’s normal exacting ways did not require much improvement on that score, however, and so long before most of the other competitors were done Travis and Trip had completed their work and were discussing how best to employ themselves until the tourney commenced two days hence.  “There’ll be plenty of smith work to do,” Tucker mused.  “And every copper we can earn means another comfort this winter.”

“I believe I should make you a new tunic, my lord,” Travis added.  “You’re certain to win, and you shouldn’t stand before the king to accept such an honor in less than your best.”

“I suppose not,” Malcolm agreed.  “I only wish I were as certain of my triumph as you.”  Brannon had already found him with Lord Grath’s latest message, although this last missive had been not an insult but a plain threat; Malcolm’s death was what he sought this match, and he’d promised to see it happen in any way he could.  In front of the king, no less.  The knight wasn’t about to share that with Travis and Trip, though.  “We shall see day after tomorrow.”

“Yep, we’ll see you win,” Trip drawled.  “I have faith in you, Mal, we both do.” 

The knight snorted softly.  “Listening to the two of you, one would think the tourney already won and my participation in the matches to be just a formality.”

“You said it, not us.”  Travis grinned widely at him.  “We have enough money, I think some silver stitching on your tunic would be only fitting – since you will be standing before the king, that is.”

“See if they have some dark blue velvet,” Trip told him.  He arched an eyebrow when it looked like Malcolm might protest.  “You can’t wear black to meet the king, Mal, don’t even say it.”

“There’s that bloody cheek of yours again, peasant,” Malcolm replied lazily, a twinkle appearing in his storm gray eyes.  “And now you’ve given it to poor Travis, too.  A corrupting influence, that’s what you are.”

“Do my best,” Tucker responded in the same vein.  He got to his feet and stretched mightily, muscles swelled by long hot labor at the forge straining the seams on his worn tunic until they looked like to burst apart.  “Well, I guess I’d best be findin’ us somethin’ for our supper while Travis looks for cloth and thread – market’ll be closin’ with the sun.  Was there somethin’ special you were wantin’ tonight, Mal, or just whatever smells best?”

“I’d not say no to anything made with good English beef, or even a venison pasty, not after all that rabbit we’ve been eating in France,” the knight told him.  “Just be sparing with the coins; we’ve got a week in London and then the travel to find our wintering-place still ahead of us, I’d hate to have to start scrounging again like we did in the beginning.”

Tucker and Travis laughed.  “I promise to be thrifty, my lord,” the squire assured Malcolm, grinning.  “I have no wish to return to stealing scraps of tenting in the dead of night to keep you dressed to your station.”

“I do not wish it either, but nor would I change that past for all the world,” Malcolm said, his smile taking on a sentimental softness.  “It was the green tunic you made in just that manner that I wore the first night I danced with the Lady T’Pol.”

“An’ there’s our cue to go, Travis,” Trip said, rolling his eyes.  “If we stay we’ll be getting’ no more sensible conversation out of him, best to let him moon over his lady on his own.”

“I’ll remember you said that the next time the charms of some innkeeper’s daughter fill your mouth with praise for the fairer sex,” was Malcolm’s reply.  “I’m not the one of us who ‘moons’, thank you very much.  Now you’d best get going, as you said the market shuts down with the sun.  Or shall I come with you and fill your ears as you’ve filled mine time and again since I met you?”

Tucker stuck his tongue out at him, which made Malcolm laugh, and then Travis pulled the older man out of the tent and the knight was alone.  He swallowed the last of his wine, looked around the tent for something to do and found nothing…and then sat back in his chair to contemplate the charms of his proud lady.  The sentimental smile reappeared as he went over his plans to ask that a more formal arrangement be made between them after he won the championship.     

 

The next day brought with it an influx of knights and nobles, and Malcolm wandered around London with nothing much to do except gawk at the sights like a foreigner while Tucker plied his hammer for all it was worth catering to the smithing needs of the newcomers and Travis worked determinedly over the fine new tunic his master would wear in the procession the next morning.  Malcolm had hoped to see Lady T’Pol’s maid, come to ask him as she usually did what colors he would be wearing, but all that day he had no sign of her or her mistress and was consequently rather unhappy after Travis assured him a fourth time that the maid had not come to their tent at all.

The knight told himself that there must be a reason for the breaking of their pattern and did his best to convince himself that the demands of appearing at court were no doubt keeping his lady too occupied to spare someone to carry him a frivolous message – much as he wished for the Lady T’Pol to direct such a gesture toward him, Malcolm knew her father could not allow her to place her affection for him before their duty to the king.  He was still feeling rather melancholy over the lack of contact, though, when Trip returned from the forge well after sunset.

The blacksmith was exhausted, streaked with soot and ash, his blond hair matted to brown by a day’s worth of sweat and dust.  He tossed Travis a pouch bursting with coins and laid aside a larger bag containing items taken in trade for his services as he leaned wearily against one of the tent supports.  “D’you want to put jewels on that tunic too, Travis?  I think we can afford some now.”

“Business was that good, was it?”  Travis chuckled as he secured the coins in their money box with the rest of their winter nest egg.  “I saved you some supper, if you want it.”

“I do, after I clean up a bit,” Tucker sighed, running his fingers through his hair and grimacing at the feel of it.  “Make that a lot – I may just throw myself in the river an’ be done with it, splashin’ in a basin won’t do tonight.”

“I’ll fetch water for you to bathe with,” the squire told him, frowning when the older man made to object.  “No, you’ve slaved away in your forge while I sat sewing here in the shade all day,” he insisted.  “And for all the wealth you returned with for your labors, the least I could do is carry a few paltry buckets of water for you.  Now sit and eat while I fetch the water – on bare earth, you’ll soil anything else you touch right now.”

“I feel like I’ve a pound of soil just on my skin alone, the dust was blowin’ so today,” the smith agreed.  He found a likely spot to place himself and sat, taking his filled plate from Travis with a grateful smile.  “First time I’ve broken my fast since mornin’, thanks Travis.”

Travis worked around their small space for a short time, making the money box secure again and then readying what was needed for a bath, and Malcolm sat and watched the smith eat, for lack of anything better to occupy himself with and not wanting to make conversation.  It was not long after Travis left to fill the buckets, however, that Tucker noticed the attention and paused in his meal to cock a weary eyebrow at the broody knight.  “Bad day?”

“A surfeit of ennui,” Malcolm corrected dismissively.  He wasn’t entirely lying; the day’s waiting _had_ been boring to him.  “There was aught to do and it was hot, and I can now say I’ve seen more of London than I wished to.  I’d have rather been working the forge with you than wandering to no purpose as I did, to tell the truth.”

“I’d have been glad of an extra pair of hands today,” Tucker said, although he looked as though he heard more in the tale than Malcolm’s words had told.  “They were thick as flies, barely gave me time enough to wet my lips from the dipper before someone was demandin’ I take up my hammer again.”  He smiled.  “All the better for our winter, though – I took in as much today as I have over the past three tourneys.” 

“You worked three times as hard for it,” Malcolm reminded him.  He had been by the forge a time or two over the course of his day’s wanderings and had seen it.  “Perhaps even five times as much.”

“That I did, but I’m not complainin’.”  The smith finished the last crumbs on his plate and set it aside, then stripped off his filthy tunic and flopped onto his back on the hard ground with a sigh.  “I’ve half a mind to go to sleep right here an’ not worry about cleanin’ up until mornin’.”

“You do have half a mind if you think Travis or I would allow you to sleep in the tent when you’re this filthy, on the floor or not.”  Malcolm peeled himself up out of his own seat and picked up both plate and discarded tunic, moving quickly out of reach when Tucker sat up and grabbed for them.  “No, Travis has the right of it,” he scolded the protesting smith.  “I’ve been worse than idle all this day while you slaved in the heat, and that gold you brought in stands for my winter’s keep as well, does it not?”  He did not add that guilt was sitting rather heavily on him for indulging himself in melancholy crossness the better part of the day and on into the night over something so trivial as a message that had never come.  “Just stay put until Travis comes back with the water.”

Tucker heaved himself up off the ground anyway and stretched mightily, groaning as overworked muscles protested the change in position.  “It’s for all our keep, just like the gold you win in the tourneys,” he returned.  “We’re in this together, you know.”

Malcolm was startled to see a troubled expression briefly flicker across his friend’s tired face, as though the words had recalled something unpleasant to Tucker’s mind, but the look was gone so quickly he could almost believe he’d imagined it.  But even still…  “Trip?”

“I’m just tired, Mal,” the smith echoed Malcolm’s earlier half-truthful dismissal, shaking his head.  “An’ we’re lookin’ at a long day tomorrah.”

“That we are.”  Malcolm decided to let the moment pass, knowing it could well simply be his own mood coloring his view of things.  Returning to their usual banter, he folded his arms across his chest and made a show of looking the taller man up and down.  “So did you just roll in the ashes, then, or was it the road as well?”

Tucker’s laugh did not quite chase the shadows from his eyes.  “Might as well have, for all I feel like I’ve got a second skin of filth over my own.  Another day or so of this an’ I’d look a blood brother to Travis.”

“You already do, in spots.”  Malcolm winked at him and turned away to rummage in his own bathing things.  “You’ll be needing the brush to take off that lot,” he called back over his shoulder.  “Can’t have you looking like a swineherd in front of the king tomorrow, now can we?  You’ll be standing right beside me, after all.”

Had he been looking, the knight would have seen Tucker’s face turn pale under its streaks of dirt, the troubled look returning four-fold.  “Yeah,” the smith said in a quiet, half-strangled voice.  “Yeah, that I will.”

 

The next morning dawned fair and bright, the sun showing just enough promise of a day’s heat to come that Malcolm was relieved he would not be riding in the lists but in the procession only; the first day of tourney was to settle the less favored competitors amongst each other, and those who had already proved themselves would not be called upon until they were done.  The procession itself was nearly as important as a match, though, as it was an opportunity for all the knights and nobles to present themselves before the king at their very best – as the king’s word was the deciding one were there to be a dispute on the field of honor, his good opinion could be a valuable thing to have.

Once again Malcolm’s insistence on keeping everything well in order stood he and his men in good stead; while some of the other competitors had their servants up before dawn making things ready, Travis and Trip rose at their usual hour and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with their master before setting to work brushing his horse and making sure every bit of metal within view was polished to a high shine while Malcolm dressed himself in his new tunic and strapped on his sword belt.  He had stopped competing with the sword in the tourneys two years ago, feeling that those matches had become more blood than sport, but thanks to Tucker’s care the blade that was his only inheritance from the House of Reed was perfectly kept.  Malcolm admired it with pride before sliding it into the finely wrought scabbard that Trip had made for him several winters ago; many knights carried their swords blade-free, but Malcolm’s was sharp enough to cut bone as well as flesh and he felt it better to guard against accidents than apologize for them.

Once he was as ready as he could be Malcolm went out to mount his waiting horse and walked her alongside Travis to find their place in the line of knights.  Tucker was nowhere to be seen, and the squire shrugged when Malcolm asked after him.  “I do not know, my lord,” Travis told him.  “He left after we finished with the horse saying he had to make himself ready, but I have not seen him since.”  He frowned up at his master, concern showing on his face.  “He has been quiet this morning, at first I thought him to still be tired from his work yesterday but now I am not so sure.”    

Malcolm was not sure either, remembering the troubled look he thought he had seen on the smith’s face the night before, but he shook his head.  “Trip will be here,” he told Travis.  “Whatever keeps him, I have no doubt he will find us and take his place before it is time.”  But Malcolm was surprised, to say the least, when Tucker finally did appear and took up his standard; the smith was wearing a rag tied round his head to cover one eye and looked not so happy to be part of the procession as he usually was.  “Problem?” the knight inquired.

“Got somethin’ in my eye, light was hurtin’ it,” Tucker excused himself, but he didn’t meet Malcolm’s gaze when he said it.  “It’ll be all right, let’s just get on with this.”

The knight started to press the matter further, but then the horn sounded for the procession to commence and they began to move forward.  The crowds were thick on both sides of the narrow street, perched in windows and even on roofs.  The air was filled with cheers and cries and colors waved in many hands, from stitched and painted banners to bundles of rags, all announcing the holder’s favorite; Malcolm’s own colors were plentiful throughout the crowd, a fact that gratified and humbled him.  On his left, Travis marched beaming with his standard held high, and on the right Trip held his no lower although his usual smile had been replaced by a look of grim pride.

The line was long and ordered by rank not standing, so it was some time before Malcolm and his men reached the field of honor to pass before the king.  King Jonathan, successor by only three years of his father King Henry, sat on his throne watching the procession with avid interest.  He was a strong man in his prime, brown hair as yet untouched by frost and a good-natured face lined by frequent smiles.  One of those smiles was bestowed upon Malcolm as his name was announced, and the knight bowed in acknowledgement of the courtesy.  He had been in France at the time of the old king’s death and so had never seen Jonathan of Archer, but he had heard that the man loved the tourney and had in his younger years even been known to sneak into the lists himself on occasion.  Or so Trip had told him, anyway. 

Another glance down at his side showed the blacksmith to be standing even stiffer, and it was then Malcolm noticed that the rag wrapped around the man’s head had been shifted so that it covered the opposite side of his face…the side within the king’s view.  A small, thoughtful frown creased the knight’s brow as they rode around the field on their way back to the tent city.  Tucker’s accent marked him as being from the southern part of England, and although he often spoke broadly as any peasant his words were otherwise far too fine for someone born to the low station he pretended.  And now it appeared he feared the king would recognize him and so had improvised a way to hide his handsome face from view. 

But why?  Malcolm did not think Trip a criminal, the man simply didn’t have the nature for sustained duplicity.  Was he some lord’s by-blow, perhaps, a bastard once favored by his high-born father and then rejected in favor of a blooded heir and turned out to make his way as best he could?  Or could he be a disgraced son of some noble house and therefore known to the king and fearful of his censure?  Malcolm didn’t think that as likely as the other option.  Of course, it would be simpler just to confront Tucker and demand the truth, but the knight had to consider that had the man wanted to share his secret he doubtless would have done so already.  He spared another glance down at his friend and saw that the stiffness was easing into something akin to Trip’s usual bearing; a smile was even softening the tight line of his lips, an expression reflecting more than a little relief.  Malcolm considered a moment more and then put the matter aside.  He would not press things now, but somewhere over the course of their wintering he would sit his friend down with a jug of mulled wine and they would settle the mystery between them – amongst all the other things they had to settle, that was.  At present, however, they had a tourney to win.

Malcolm made it a point to watch the early matches at any tourney he attended, whether he was competing in it or no, not only for enjoyment but also to gauge if any of those lower-ranked knights rising up the lists might prove to be rivals for him in the future.  He had more than once had cause to thank this habit when it came time to defend his standing against a new opponent, his observations lending invaluable insight to already keen fighting instincts; it was a matter of some amusement between he and his men that many of the other knights had attributed his almost uncanny ability to predict an opponent’s every move to everything from divine favor to pacts with the devil, and in truth there were some few who refused to ride against him for that very reason.  Malcolm ignored these rumors as a proper noble should, but he suspected that the more vocal of the rumor-mongers were ‘persuaded’ to find a new topic of gossip by Travis and Trip, who were ever-mindful of their master’s honorable reputation.

Travis attended the day’s matches with him, running small errands and messages and lending his own sharp eyes to the task of observing the competition, but Trip had returned to the forge and was once again hard at work padding their winter nest egg.  Malcolm sent Travis several times throughout the heat of the day to check on the blacksmith, and each time the squire returned with the news that not one stood to one side with something being repaired between hammer and anvil that there were not two more standing in wait behind him.

Malcolm was glad his troubled friend was being kept busy, he was even somewhat jealous; most of those taking the field were already known to him, and his lady once again was nowhere to be seen about the stands or in any of the boxes.  Her father he did see, but Lord Soval was far too forbidding of a figure for Malcolm to approach with anything less than an official matter.  That thought made him smile.  Tomorrow, after he’d won, he would have a case of sufficient importance to bring before the man and with luck and the king’s blessing would receive his approval for the future he’d been planning for himself and the Lady T’Pol.  He thought his lady must suspect his intentions, and Malcolm fully expected that, knowing his habits, she would send her maid to find him at the tourney even though she did not come herself.

But the maid did not come all that day, nor did he see her in the crowds.  Malcolm was broody again that night and retired early to bed, half-heartedly pleading a need for extra rest before the next day’s matches.  Trip also had sought his blanket earlier than usual, exhausted once again by his hard work in the day’s heat, and so Travis had no chance to express his concerns over their master’s melancholy mood to him until the next day.

Malcolm rode twice the next morning, winning each match despite the fact that his mind was rather on the absence from the stands of she who had chosen him as her champion than on either of his opponents.  After the second match, with the sun riding high the king called for a break in the competition to spare both horses and riders from the worst of the midday heat and dismissed the knights to go refresh themselves and make ready for the day’s last round of matches.  Malcolm was to ride third in the list when they came again, matched against Lord Grath if the man could defeat his other competitor and with the winner if he could not.  The knight had no doubt Grath would be facing him; the man was driven, half insane with the need to win and if possible humiliate or even kill him in front of the king, and no one would stand between him and that goal.

He was musing over this, alone in the tent, when the one he had been looking for since they’d entered London appeared at the flap.  Malcolm’s pleased smile shrank, however, at the dour expression and sharp, near-contemptuous manner of the usually coolly polite and pleasant maid who served his lady love, and it died altogether when she thrust a sealed and folded letter into his hands and then walked away without another word.

Malcolm returned to his seat and with trembling fingers and a sinking heart broke the seal and read the message it had guarded, written in the Lady T’Pol’s own neat hand…and then in disbelief and growing horror he read it again, and yet again, feeling the world end around him as the cool and callous words of the missive refused to alter themselves to fit the future plans he had held so dear until this very moment.  His trembling grown to shaking, he picked up the half-full wineskin lying nearby and fumbled it open, drinking deeply in an attempt to drown the pain that was already wringing tears of loss and shame from his blurring eyes.  It had to be a dream, some horrible nightmare…but at heart he was a practical man and knew it wasn’t, and the crushing weight of that knowledge coupled with the heady influence of the wine finally pushed him down into darkness.

When Travis finally returned to the tent he found an empty wineskin and a tear-streaked master sleeping so deeply because of it that he could not be wakened no matter how hard the squire shook him.  Frightened, he left the tent to find Tucker; the smith was back at his forge, but one look at Travis and he abandoned his hammer without a backward glance and drew him aside.  “What’s happened?” he demanded.  “It’s Mal, isn’t it?  What’s happened to him?  It wasn’t…”

“I don’t know.”  Travis was almost crying himself; he had never expected to see a sight like the one that had greeted him inside their tent, and he did not know what to make of it.  “You have to come, I can’t wake him…”

“Was he drinkin’?”  When the younger man nodded, Trip’s pleasant face grew dark as a thundercloud; he took the younger man’s arm and fairly dragged him back to the tent.  He froze, though, in the act of pushing aside the flap when he got his first look at the sorry scene inside.  Tucker entered slowly and leaned over the sleeping knight to tease the letter out of his lax hand; he swore quietly but viciously when he saw the moisture-smeared contents.  “I knew it,” he hissed.  “That…that _witch_ , I just knew it.  She knows how honorable Mal is, so she knew he wouldn’t ever tell anyone ‘bout this, anyone at all.”  He raised hard, emotion-paled eyes to meet Travis’ questioning gaze.  “She told him he was ‘amusing enough’ but her father says it’s time to stop playin’ around now that they’re in London ‘cause they wouldn’t want the king to get wind of her dallyin’ with someone like Malcolm, could hurt her chances of gettin’ married to a ‘man of quality’.” 

Travis was confused.  “Why send a message like that, though?  Why not just withdraw her favor, choose a new champion?  She didn’t need to be so cruel, even though he wouldn’t tell.”

“Yeah, she did, Travis.”  Tucker’s jaw clenched, as did his fist around the letter.  “It’s the king himself they’re after, I’d bet my life on it.  They know what kind of man he is, too, an’ that he’s bound to know she’s been showin’ favor to Malcolm – he wouldn’t look too kindly on her suddenly throwin’ her champion over and comin’ on to him at court.  But she knew if she did it this way – if she was cruel enough – that Mal would be crushed and prob’ly wouldn’t ride.”

“So he’d be dishonored in the lists by the forfeit.”  Travis suddenly understood.  “Or by losing because he was too upset to want to fight.  And then…”

“And then she and her father could publicly claim Mal had dishonored her by his actions in the tournament an’ the king would be all for her, she’d have the sympathy of everyone in England.  An’ Mal would be lucky not to end up in the stocks; Jonathan of Archer takes a real dim view of a man who he thinks ain’t done right by a lady, an’ he’d never believe us over her, never.”

There was a bleakness in his eyes and voice, a dead cold certainty that frightened Travis.  “We have to wake him up…”

“Wouldn’t do any good,” the smith countered sharply, stopping the younger man from shaking their master.  “Even if we could get him on his horse, he wouldn’t fight and we both know it – and bein’ dishonored would be the death of him, either way.  No, we’ve got to come up with a way to spare him that, give him time to get over all this.  And we don’t have much time, he’s due on the field in less than two hours.”

Travis thought quickly.  “We could say he was ill?”

“No, they’d send a physician to verify it – and then that lie would be another mark against him.”

“How about taking the letter to the king?” was the squire’s next suggestion.  “You say he’s a man who values honor…”

“You’d never get near him, not in time,” Tucker countered.  “And even if you did, he still most likely wouldn’t believe you – trust me, I know.”  Before Travis could ask how it was he knew such a thing, however, a fire suddenly lit the smith’s blue eyes from within.  “I’ve got it!”  He grabbed Travis’ arm and pulled him out of the tent.  “Lay everything in readiness, and polish up the helmet with the crest on it.  I’ll be back with the armor.”

“But he hates the one with the crest…”

“No, _she_ did,” Tucker corrected.  “If there were no other reason, that one should decide us on  usin’ it today.  Now don’t you wake him and don’t let anyone in here to see him, anyone at all – and if any ask after me, tell them last you saw I was off in my cups someplace and our master was quite disgusted with me.”  He winked, but the gesture was devoid of his usual good humor.  “Never fear, Travis, our master will both ride and fight in the tourney today, I guarantee it.”

 

When Malcolm woke up, he noticed two things; one was that the Lady T’Pol’s letter was gone from his hand and the other was the absence of his companions from the tent.  A dull roar from the direction of the field of honor assaulted his ears and he realized that the final round of matches must be well underway.  So where were Travis and Tucker?  He stood up, a bit unsteadily, and looked around himself.  Everything was still there, nothing packed up like he’d expect it would be under the circumstances.  Why weren’t the two men there, readying for a quick departure to escape the consequences of his dishonor?  Or had they abandoned him to his own devices after reading the letter and learning the depth of his folly?

Even as he thought that he knew it couldn’t be; if there were anything he were certain of, it was the loyalty of the men who traveled with him.  So where were they?  Another, louder roar from the distant crowd drew him to the tent flap where he blinked against the bright afternoon sunlight.  Could they be there, watching the matches?  It didn’t seem likely, but he could think of no other place to begin searching.

Malcolm approached the lists cautiously, but he really had no fear of being noticed; everyone’s attention was focused on the field, where two competitors were lining up for a final go at each other.  He noticed that one of them was Lord Grath, the very knight he himself was supposed to be facing, and another look showed the opposing knight to be…

Himself.  Malcolm froze.  His armor, his horse, his lance…his crested helmet, the one he’d never worn since the day Lady T’Pol had professed not to like it.  And Travis was standing in his accustomed spot…alone.

Trip had taken his place.  And he was facing the man who had sworn to kill Malcolm the next time they met on the field.  A man who had no honor and was known for his cruelty.  Malcolm knew he could have beaten Grath and emerged from the match mostly unscathed, but Trip…Trip was facing his death and he didn’t know it, all because Malcolm had drowned both honor and responsibility in a skin of wine over the callous insults of a fortune-seeking woman.  A woman Trip had tried to warn him about time and time again.

The flag dropped, the two horses charged…and Grath rocked back in his saddle and tumbled off his mount as Malcolm’s lance hit him high on his chest.  His opponent, however, had also been hit; he curled forward over his saddle horn, the foremost remains of Grath’s shattered lance sticking obscenely out of his steel-armored side.

The crowd exploded, and for a heartbeat Malcolm was frozen in place.  He broke his paralysis, however, when he heard Travis shout and saw the king bolt up from his seat; Grath had not only tipped his lance, he’d spiked it as well.  Malcolm spared half a thought for how slowly he would kill the dishonorable bastard as he shoved his way through the cheering and jeering crowd to reach Travis’ side.  Trip was already stretched out on the ground beside the horse with the squire kneeling beside him and tugging gamely at the straps that secured the pierced chest plate in place.  Malcolm dropped to his knees on the opposite side, tugging off the helmet and slapping Travis’ hands away when the younger man tried to stop him.  “Bloody hell, man, he can’t breathe with this thing on!  Is this charade worth his life?”

“It’s worth both of yours!” Travis hissed back.  “Sir, you shouldn’t be here!”

“I should have been here to begin with!” Malcolm snapped back.  “My father always said I was a coward and a fool and today I’ve proved him right – I’ve writ it in letters twelve hands high with my best friend’s blood.  Now leave off bothering with those straps, just cut them through!”

The curious souls that had gathered around drew back a little at the ferocity in his tone, but more than one of them gasped when the import of his words struck them – and not a few of them suddenly recognized the unconscious man who’d been wearing the armor as Sir Malcolm’s blacksmith and not a knight at all and shuddered with pity for the injured man, knowing he would likely bleed and die in the stocks that same day for the crime of impersonating his master in the tournament, if he was not dead already.  And many of those felt it would be a mercy if he was, knowing him as a pleasant enough fellow ill-deserving of such an ignoble death.

Malcolm was giving no thought to any of them.  His whole attention was fixed on the pale, sweat-streaked face and closed eyes of the man who had risked death to spare Malcolm’s own paltry honor.  “Don’t you die,” he ordered in a whisper, trying not to watch Travis’ frantic attempts to still the blood that flowed thickly out of the hole left by the spiked lance.  “Damn you, Trip, just this once take an order from me without your usual impertinent cheek; don’t die, please don’t die.”

Jonathan of Archer, king of England, approached the scene with a frown on his face which was quickly becoming a scowl as the word spread through the crowd that the injured man was not even the knight he was supposed to be.  What in God’s name had happened here today?  First a tipped lance and now this.  He recognized the man kneeling next to the false knight as Sir Malcolm, although he’d only ever seen him from a distance, and the younger dark-skinned man on the other side appeared to be his squire.  So who was this blacksmith?  As he and his entourage of guards drew nearer he saw blond hair and fair skin and oddly familiar features.  He was still puzzling over how he might know the man when the squire jumped to his feet and bowed, presenting the remains of the lance to him with bloodstained hands that shook.  “Your majesty, my master…”

“That isn’t him,” Jonathan stated flatly, allowing one of his men to take the damning piece of wood and sharp metal and gesturing toward the injured man.  “I hear _that_ is a blacksmith, and I recognize your master beside him instead of in his place as he should be.”  He raised his voice.  “The rules of the tournament are clear, only those of noble blood may compete and any lesser men that presume to try may dangle in the stocks until they’ve had time to repent of not knowing their place.”  Even as he said the words he was unsure – the downed man seemed so familiar! –  but the king still could not place him and did not have time to think on it; discipline must be swift and sure if order were to be maintained.  “Does the impostor live?”

“For the moment, your majesty,” Travis stammered, bowing even deeper.  “He needs tending…”

“He may have a bandage – tear a strip off your tunic to make one,” Jonathan ordered.  “You may tend him further when the sun sets and he is released from the stocks.”  He fixed a hard eye on the squire when it looked like the young man might object.  “Be grateful that I show mercy for his condition and do not make him stay there a full day of hours as the law commands.  He has earned his punishment and the law says it must be meted out at once.  Guards…”

Malcolm tore himself away from his friend’s side and stood up.  “No, my lord,” he interrupted, placing himself between the injured smith and the guards who had stepped forward at the king’s command.  “The fault is mine, not his; this man is in my service and acted on my behalf, therefore the lawful punishment should be meted out to me.”

The crowd gasped and the king looked surprised, leaving off his contemplation of the downed man’s face to focus his attention on the young knight.  “The tourneys are for those of noble blood only,” he repeated.  “Although the other competitor is disqualified as well for the duplicitous spike hidden in his lance, your man defied the law when he rode against him.  He must be punished in the stocks.”

“ _I_ must be,” Malcolm countered stubbornly.  “He acted in my interests, as he knew my honor to be contingent upon completing the match as I had pledged to do.  Do you punish a servant for following his master’s orders as best he knows how?”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow at his boldness.  “No, I suppose not,” he granted.  “You speak well in his defense, although not in your own.  Will you come willingly with the guards, then?”

“I shall…but I would beg an indulgence of you first,” Malcolm ventured.  He saw the king frown and hurried on.  “This man is more than a servant to me, and he is gravely wounded, perhaps even fatally.  I would see him through the night, to whichever end, that he might not think I have abandoned him.  And I would give you my word to come to you and accept my fate on the morrow just after bells.”  He saw the other man think about it.  “Please, my lord.”

The king’s frown deepened.  “You plead with me for this?”

The knight didn’t so much as blink.  “For Trip’s sake, yes.”

Jonathan started.  Hazel eyes, changeable as a blown field, gazed into Malcolm’s desperate gray ones searchingly, and after a long moment the king slowly nodded.  “Very well, your word is given and I accept it.  On the morrow, just after bells, I will expect you to appear before me.  Now go attend your man.”

“Thank you, my lord.”  Malcolm bowed deeply, relief shining in his face, and then quickly turned to help his squire with the injured smith.  The king watched them for a moment more, and then motioned to the guards to follow him and left the field.  His mind was still turning over the day’s events, though, and he began to make plans of his own.

 

“Your majesty, I do not understand why…”

Jonathan interrupted the man in front of him with a wave of his hand; he’d had a long day followed by a restless night and a too-early morning, and he was in no mood to be questioned.  “I hold audience as I see fit, Lord Stewart, and I did not think it fitting for this complicated matter to be aired before the entire court.”

The tall, weathered head of the House of Reed stiffened.  “It is a public matter...”

“So you believe; I, however, do not agree with you,” the king interrupted again.  “Now explain to me why I should allow you to disown your only son when you have no heir to replace him.”

“He has dishonored our name,” the older man snapped, his gray eyes dark with fury.  “Bad enough that he had to roam around hither and yon like a common vagabond in this tourney nonsense…”  The lord saw the king’s expression darken slightly and hastily left that complaint for the next.  “But now I come into port and have to find out from my own men that he has dishonored himself even in that, shamed himself beyond redemption.  I will find a proper heir, I will _buy_ one if I have to, but I will not allow this wastrel to dishonor our bloodline one moment longer!”

“Ah, so you heard about the punishment as well as the crime,” Jonathan said, nodding.  “You wish to distance yourself from your son before he arrives to accept his blacksmith’s place in the stocks.”

Lord Stewart snorted.  “Your pardon, your majesty, but if you wish to see him punished you had best send your guard out to the highway on fast horses; the boy is a weak, worthless coward, a distressing eddy in our proud bloodline, and I have no doubt he has abandoned the servant to his death in the night and fled your justice like a fish flees a net.”

“As it so happens,” the king told him in clipped tones, his hazel eyes darkened with anger, “the bells have just rung and I believe your son to be approaching as we speak.  You will stay and hold your peace,” he warned sternly, “until I ask to hear from you again.  You do not have my permission to address him in any manner of your own choosing.  He and I have business to attend to, and my business has more weight than your grievance.”

Lord Stewart grumbled under his breath at that, but did not dare speak against his king’s words any more than he already had.  And to his utter surprise, although he covered it well with a ready frown, the herald announced that Sir Malcolm had arrived only a moment later and the knight who was his son entered the chamber with a nod to the page who had admitted him and stood before the king, waiting.  “Your man lives?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes, my lord.”  Malcolm’s voice was thick with weariness, and in spite of his stiff formal bearing his face and posture spoke of a long, weary night.  His tired gray eyes flicked briefly over his scowling father and a flash of what might have been despair flared in them before he returned his gaze to Jonathan.  “He will recover, so says the physician who came last night to aid us.  My deepest thanks to you for allowing me to remain at his side until his fate was certain.  And now I am prepared to accept my graciously delayed punishment.”

“Yes, I have been giving thought to that,” the king said, nodding.  “The crowds have dispersed, so I do not believe the stocks to be suitable.  Were your man in your place I would in this circumstance probably have him flogged instead.  Have you ever been flogged?”

Malcolm stood a little straighter.  “No, my lord.”

“I see.”  Jonathan looked thoughtful.  “Are you certain your man should not stand in your place, then?”

“It was me who he was protecting, my lord, and due only to my own foolishness” the knight responded firmly.  “Therefore it is my deserved punishment, not his.”

“Very well.”  The king motioned to a guard standing by, who uncoiled a short whip from his belt and stepped forward.  “Remove your shirt, then, and we shall see if you feel the same after you’ve tasted a few lashes.”  The young knight obediently pulled off his worn tunic and dropped it at his feet, and at Jonathan’s nod two more guards stepped forward, each of them taking one of Malcolm’s arms in a firm grip.  The king gave a meaningful look to the whip-bearer.  “Twenty lashes, then.  Begin.”

The first crack of the whip made Malcolm jump, but he braced himself against the second and stood stiffly in the guards’ hold, his jaw clenched against the pain.  Jonathan raised his hand to call a halt after eight lashes, and stepped down off his dais to approach the young knight.  He stepped very near, taking in the sweat pouring down the paling face and heaving chest, and he almost smiled; small though the knight may be, his slender body was as finely honed as a blade of Toledo steel and although the gray eyes were dark with pain he had yet to make a sound.  “What say you now, sir knight?” the king asked him.

Malcolm’s jaw unclenched, with an effort.  “T-twelve more to go, my lord,” he answered.

Jonathan nodded.  “You need not be the one to take them,” he suggested.  “I would be willing to wait until your man has regained his strength before punishing him, if you like.”

The gray eyes darkened even more.  “No thank you, my lord.”

“I didn’t expect so.  Well then, you leave me no other choice than to proceed as I had planned.”  He motioned to the restraining guards and they released Malcolm’s arms.  “Kneel.”  If the knight’s descent to his knees seemed more involuntary than obedient, the king graciously ignored it.  He walked around the younger man, taking in the bloody red wheals left by the whip, the bowed shoulders that trembled slightly with weariness and pain, and then he looked back up to the stone-faced lord still standing beside the dais.  “Lord Stewart, will you recant your position and reclaim this your only son as your heir?” he demanded.

“He is no blood of mine,” the lord snarled, a disgusted look on his face.  “He chooses the company of dogs, let him lie in the mud with them and share their lot.”

“Dogs?  Perhaps,” the king returned, raising an eyebrow; he did not miss the fact that the words struck the man kneeling at his feet as though the lash had fallen again.  He drew his sword and circled the knight again to stand before him, then gently touched the flat of the gleaming blade to each sweat-drenched shoulder in turn.  “Rise, Lord Malcolm,” he intoned formally.  The dark head shot up, gray eyes widening in shock, and Jonathan smiled at him.  “A man of such honor and bravery is wasted in the tourneys – and apparently in the house of Reed as well.  I grant you lands and title in your own right and declare that you will join my household and serve me from this day forth, you and all you claim as yours.  And I will count myself blessed by God to have such men at my side.”

He sheathed his sword and held out his hand, and Malcolm took it and allowed himself to be drawn to his feet in a daze.  “My lord, I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Your actions have spoken for you,” the king allowed.  He gave his new vassal a considering look.  “Page, take Lord Malcolm to the chambers I ordered prepared earlier so that he may rest from the trying events of the past days.  And have his men brought to him as well.  Malcolm, I will expect you to join me at the noon meal tomorrow; until then, if you have need of anything you have but to ask the servants.”

Malcolm recovered his composure with an effort and nodded.  “Yes, my lord,” he agreed.  “Thank you, my lord.”

“You are most welcome,” Jonathan replied, pleased.  “Now go, I have unpleasant matters to clear my hall of which you need not be privy to.  Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, my lord,” Malcolm responded.

The king watched the servants lead the young man away and then turned back to the shocked lord standing at the foot of the dais with a grim smile.  “I believe we were discussing dogs and the company they keep, Lord Stewart?”

 

Malcolm little remembered being guided through the long corridors of the palace, but he woke many hours later to find himself lying on his stomach in a soft bed with something soothingly cool that smelled of herbs draped across his back.  The dimly-lit room was strange to him, but the soft worried voices at his side were comforting in their familiarity.  “Trip, he’s not truly hurt – the whip barely even broke his skin, the wheals will cease to pain him in a few days and in a fortnight he won’t even remember them.”

“ _I’ll_ remember them,” Tucker’s anguished voice replied.  “I’ll never forget them.  They should have been mine.”

“That’s not what the king said, _Sir Charles_ ,” the younger man corrected him.  “And in your state even a lashing such as this one probably would have killed you – you shouldn’t be out of bed now, you still have a fever and the healer ordered you to rest.”

“I won’t be able to rest until I’m sure Mal is all right.”  Malcolm felt a gentle hand touch his shoulder, smooth down the cooling cloths on his back.  “He’s never going to forgive me for this, Travis, never.”

“For not telling me you were noble-born?” Malcolm murmured, deliberately mistaking his meaning.  He turned his head toward Tucker’s voice and saw the man himself, face pale and drawn in the candlelight and streaked with the tracks of tears.  “I knew, Trip, I knew.”

Tucker started violently, which in turn made him wince and brought Travis quickly to his side.  “You’re awake,” the younger man observed happily to Malcolm.  “We’ve just been waiting for you to wake up, my lord.  Are you hungry?  There’s food…”

“In a minute.”  Malcolm pushed himself up slightly so he could look Tucker in the eye, ignoring the pain the movement caused him.  “I should be asking you to forgive me, Trip – had I listened to your warnings none of this would have happened.  You almost died trying to protect me from my own stupidity.”

“You’ve never been stupid, never,” Tucker denied vehemently, leaning close and taking Malcolm’s hand in a desperate, trembling grip.  “That witch and her father, it was their kind that drove me from my own home; it’s their way to use men’s hearts against them.  The king sent them both away, Mal, he said he’d never bond himself with someone who would toy with an honorable man’s affections in such a way as they did yours.  He dismissed them in front of both Travis and I and the entire court, an’ had them tender formal apology for us to pass on to you.”  He sniffed.  “Not that they meant it, but the words were spoken and recorded.  Your honor remains unblemished.”

“Only thanks to your loyalty,” Malcolm countered.  “And I care less about my honor at this moment than I do about your well-being.  Travis is right, you should be in bed.  Travis?”

“Yes sir,” the squire said with a smile.  He drew Tucker to his feet, all unwilling but trembling with weakness, and supported the taller man over to another bed set close by and carefully lowered him into it.  It was then Malcolm noticed that Tucker was dressed only in a soft cotton nightshift and his feet were bare.  Travis flipped a fold of the shift aside to check the bandaging underneath and nodded, pleased, when he found it unmarked by blood.  He pulled the coverlet up and tucked it in carefully.  “I’ll bring you some of the hot drink the healer left,” he said.  “It smells strange but he swore it would help you rest without pain.”  Travis turned back to Malcolm with a wink.  “He is the same physician from last night, sir – the king’s own man and sent by him, his name is Phlox.  He saw to you as well and said you would have no scars.”

Malcolm brushed that consideration aside as unimportant.  “Is the pain very bad, Trip?”

Tucker shook his head against the pillow.  “I’m all right, Mal.”  But he took the cup Travis offered him and drank deeply of the contents, although he wrinkled up his nose at the smell and taste of it.  “I jus’ need a bit more sleep.”

“I’m sure.”  Malcolm pillowed his head on his arms.  “Trip,” he began, and then he stopped when his friend’s heavy-lidded eyes turned toward him.  There was no condemnation in that glassy blue gaze, no regret, only relief and a weight of weary concern that humbled him.  “Thank you.”

Trip blinked, and smiled.  “Any time.”  His eyes closed and he relaxed into the mattress with a sigh.  “ ‘Night.” 

“Sleep well, my friend.”  Malcolm watched until he was certain the other man was fast asleep, and then he turned his attention to Travis.  “Tell me what happened,” he demanded quietly.  “The king said he’d send for you…”

“He did – but his man failed to find us because we were already on our way to the palace.”  Travis shook his head at Malcolm’s surprised look.  “Trip woke almost directly as you left this morning, and he would accept nothing less than coming after you at once; I’ve never seen him in such a state and I hope I never do again.  I believe he would have happily killed himself getting here if I hadn’t agreed to help.  I tried to tell him that the only thing he’d accomplish was joining you in the stocks, but he said…” the young man cleared his throat, “he said that once the king saw him there’d be no question of you taking his place.  He…my lord, if I didn’t know better I’d think he expected the king to denounce him on sight.”

Malcolm nodded slowly, remembering his own thoughts on just that matter a few days previous.  “Perhaps he did.  But that obviously isn’t what happened, is it?”

“No, my lord.”  Travis went from worried to wondering in the space of a breath, and Malcolm hid a smile at his youthful enthusiasm.  “The king’s man caught up with us just at the gates and with his aid we went straight to the throne room – quite a bit of aid, Trip was barely keeping his feet even with me bearing most of his weight.  The man had us wait off to one side as there were others having audience, but Trip argued with him that every second you suffered unjustly for his actions was one second to many.  We tried to quiet him but the king heard and stood up; it was like everyone else in the room had disappeared for him and he came straight to us.  He looked angry and I thought we were done for, but Trip met his eyes and then pulled out of our hold and dropped to his knees, begging for the king to punish the one he knew was deserving of it.”  The young man’s eyes were wide, remembering what had happened next.  “My lord, the king reached out and touched his face like he was something precious, and then he called him Trip and said he could think of no one less deserving of punishment.  His anger was all for the manner in which we’d arrived, and he was rounding on the man with us for not calling for a litter but I told him that we’d met the man at the palace gates and then it was all right.  We gave him the letter, and he grew angry all over again when he read it and said he had suspected something of the kind.  He had a chair brought for Trip, and then he went back to the throne and summoned the Lady T’pol and her father to make their apology before he had the servants bring us to you.”    

“By all that’s holy.”  Malcolm rested his head on folded arms, unsure whether to laugh or cry and settling for neither.  “That impulsive, ridiculous, brave bloody fool – Trip,” he assured his shocked squire quickly, hearing the younger man’s sharp intake of breath, “not the king.  No wonder he adopted that silly disguise during the procession, he feared the king would recognize him and...and…”

“And denounce you for being in his company,” Travis finished for him quietly when the tears won out over his master’s strained composure.  “But what could have been so bad that a man of noble birth would be slaving his life away as a common blacksmith and yet the king holds it to be worthy of forgiveness?  And if so why has his family not come for him before now, if all has been forgiven?  What of his own father?”

“What of mine?” Malcolm replied harshly, wiping at his eyes with one hand.  “I’ve been these past three years and more in France without a word between us much less so much as a penny for my keep or comfort, and I am my father’s eldest and only son, the sole heir to the House of Reed.”  He recalled the words that his father had spoken, denouncing him before the king, with a shudder.  “Or rather, I was.  Not all fathers are so kind as your own, Travis.”

“He was that,” the younger man agreed; his own father had been a merchant trader and a most shrewd but fair man.  He grimaced.  “Your pardon, my lord, but your father is a fool.”

To his surprise, his master chuckled.  “No pardon needed, you speak truly,” Malcolm said, shifting so that he could meet his squire’s eyes.  “And I believe the king agrees as well, else I doubt he would have offered Lord Stewart the chance to reclaim me as his heir before he raised my rank right in front of his sneering face.”  He shuddered again, wincing slightly when the tremor pulled at the raw wheals on his back, but a slight smile still graced his face.  “I believe my father took a lashing of his own from the king’s tongue after I was led from the hall, one can only hope the sting of it will remain with him at least as long as will that from my own foolishly earned stripes.”

Travis patted his shoulder.  “I stand with Tr…Sir Charles on this, my lord; you are not and never will be a fool.”

“Contradicting your master, more of that bloody impertinent cheek he taught you,” Malcolm told him, not at all displeased.  He closed his eyes, settling back into his pillow with a sigh.  “Get some rest, Travis, we both need it after the day and night we’ve had.  Later will be time enough to discuss the whys and wherefores of noble foolishness – and the proper scold for a servant who helps such a fool drag himself through London and into the king’s very presence despite his master’s orders.”

He could hear the smile in the squire’s voice.  “All I can say, my lord, is that Sir Charles taught me well.”

 

Malcolm woke again rather late into the afternoon feeling much better.  Travis was nowhere to be seen, so he rose from his bed and had a look at the chamber’s other occupant; Tucker was still sleeping deeply if restlessly, and Malcolm decided he felt safe in leaving him.  He made his way out onto the parapet, leaning against the wide wooden rail and breathing in the fresh air.  From his vantage point he could glimpse the tourney flags still flapping over the field of honor – or dishonor, as the case may be.  He scowled at the bravely displayed colors waving in the sunlight, wondering what had happened to Grath; he suspected the man had run away as fast as his legs could carry him if he’d been given the chance.  “Cowardly blighter,” he hissed under his breath.

“That he is.”  The king’s voice startled Malcolm and he straightened quickly, wincing a little.  Jonathan smiled at him and joined him at the rail.  “Lord Grath, right?  He got away from my guard, but I’ve sent messengers out on swift horses to ensure that the tale of his deeds will be waiting to greet him wherever he goes.  The way I see it, he traded a few hours of humiliation for a lifetime of it.”

“Only fitting, I believe,” Malcolm said.  “Was there something I could do for you, my lord?”

“I came to check on you and Trip,” the king told him.  He leaned on the rail, looking out over the rooftops of the city.  “I’ve known him since we were boys, we were close as brothers for most of our lives.  I almost didn’t recognize him yesterday, it’s been so long.”

The almost wistful note in his voice struck a chord in Malcolm, and he relaxed a little.  “He said he left home because of someone like the Lady T’pol and her father.”

“The Lady Ahlen, daughter of Cyril,” Archer said with a sigh.  “They…played with him, and with his family.  She claimed there was a child, but he swore he’d never touched her.  I’m sure you’ve seen him when he’s wenching – no one believed his innocence, not even me.  His father insisted he marry her or be disinherited, but my father was none so sure and he started looking into Lord Cyril’s history; he’d always liked Trip, and he was very disappointed in me for not standing by him.”  He sighed again.  “Trip was already long gone by the time we found out he’d been in the right all along.  Until yesterday I’d given up hope of ever laying eyes on him again, it’s been near to five years.”

“He’s only taken up with Travis and I the past three,” Malcolm answered the unasked question.  “And we found him strolling down a country highway in France without a stitch to cover himself and no explanation of how he got that way.”

“Not a stitch?”  Jonathan laughed suddenly, surprising him.  “Oh, I know what he’d been about, then – and not what you might be thinking, either.  Trip has a passion for swimming; doubtless he’d stopped at a likely spot to enjoy himself and someone passing made off with his clothes.  It’s happened before.”  A wicked green sparkle appeared in his eyes.  “I’d even done it to him myself on occasion, until I saw the way the serving maids smiled at him when he came in search of what I’d taken.”  His smile just as abruptly disappeared again, and he shook his head.  “Even then, he never once took advantage or was aught but polite to them, though I know many of them would happily have offered themselves – and most likely more than one did.  I failed him so badly, I’d not be surprised if he hated me.”

“If there is one thing I know about Trip, your majesty,” Malcolm said slowly.  “It is that he is the most forgiving person in the world when it comes to slights done to himself.  He spoke of our new king on more than one occasion as a man of unflinching honor who expected no less from those around him.  Many’s the fight he’s started by refusing to stand by while some idle toss-pot spoke ill of you – or of me, for that matter, and God knows I’ve slighted him often enough when I was in an ill humor.”  It was Malcolm’s turn to look ashamed.  “He warned me to beware…the lady who chose me as her champion, and I ignored him.  Yet he put himself in my place to spare my precious honor when I would have thrown it away at her words, and even hurt with a wound that could have killed him I woke to find him sitting beside me, in tears because I had suffered a few paltry strokes of the whip and he feared I would never forgive him.”  He wiped at his own eye with the back of his hand.  “As if I could hold aught against him after being such a fool myself.”

“Then you share that honor with me – and with his father, Lord Charles the Second,” was the king’s quiet response.  He saw understanding dawn in the younger man’s face and nodded, smiling slightly.  “Yes, he is Charles the Third – Trip, to his friends.”  Jonathan dropped a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder and squeezed.  “And such you are.  I thought I recognized him at the tourney, but I was still making up my mind when you leapt to his defense and demanded to be punished in his place.  I knew I had found my wronged friend when you called him by name, though, but much as I wanted to carry him back here with me I could see that the right was yours, not mine.”  Another small smile.  “He would never have faced the whip, or the stocks.  I just had to be sure…”

“That I was worthy of him, I understand,” Malcolm told him, bowing slightly.  “You have no need to apologize, your majesty.  The king’s choice must always be the right one.”

Jonathan shocked him by laughing again.  “Don’t say that in front of Trip,” he choked out.  “He’d laugh until he burst.”

 

It would be some time before Malcolm had a chance to test out that warning, however; by nightfall his noble-born blacksmith was thrashing and ranting in the clutches of a high fever brought on by the combination of his injury, overexertion and worry.  The king’s physician returned and stayed with them, declaring he’d seen it coming that morning.  “Fretted himself right into a fever,” he told Malcolm.  The knight was sitting beside his ailing friend trying to hold him still while Phlox and Travis bathed his burning body with cold water.  Both nightshift and blankets had long since been dispensed with, and the shutters on the casement windows had been thrown wide to counter the heat from the fire.  “Not that he wouldn’t have developed one anyway, but this sort only afflicts those who have too much on their mind besides healing.  It is the mind’s way of emptying itself, you see.”

Malcolm’s jaw set.  “He’s had reason to have it overfull, you can’t deny that.”  Tucker twisted again, forcing him to change his grip, and cried out plaintively for someone.  He’d been calling for many people, and had long since left behind any names his friends knew.  Soothing words would not calm him, he only cried the more for the fact that the voice that spoke them was not the one he wanted.  “Will this ‘emptying’ of yours do him harm?”

“It may at that.”  The physician shook his head.  “If we cannot calm him, he will burn out like a spent candle.  He is young and strong, he will not die,” Phlox assured the two younger men quickly.  “But he will be abed for weeks instead of days, weak as a child, if we do not settle him sooner and not later.”

Malcolm made a decision.  “Go fetch the king,” he ordered his squire.

Travis’ eyes widened, and even Phlox looked unsure.  “It is the dead of night, perhaps in the morning…”

“They were great friends once,” Malcolm overrode him.  “The king will thank you for waking him, I swear it.  And he may be the only one who knows this nightmare Trip is having well enough to soothe it.  Go, Travis!”

“Tell the guards _I_ request the king’s presence,” Phlox added.  “They do not know Lord Malcolm well enough at present to wake the king in his name.”

It was not very long at all before Travis returned, trailing in the wake of a very agitated king.  Jonathan had thrown on a loose shirt and pants in place of his nightshift, and his feet were bare on the stone floor.  “He is worse?”

“We need to calm him if we don’t wish him to be,” Phlox answered.  “Lord Malcolm believes that you may succeed where we have failed, as you know the names of the demons that torment him and we do not.”

“Sadly, I do,” the king said.  He took the physician’s place beside his friend and winced when he heard the broken murmurs of protest and pleading that slipped from the younger man’s lips.  “Trip, you must listen to me,” he said softly.  “Your father knows you did no wrong, as do I.  You are back home where you belong, my friend, at long last.”

Trip stilled under his hands.  “J-jonathan?” he whispered.

“Here, beside you.”  The ill man drew in a shuddering breath, and to the king’s horror a tear slipped out from under his closed lids, and then another.  “Trip, what is it?  Are you in pain?” 

More tears, and the sweat-soaked blond head tossed on the pillow.  “P-please…”

“You may have anything you ask of me,” Jonathan told him.  “Anything in my power to give is yours, you have but to name it.”

Blue eyes peered up at him from beneath heavy lids, glowing with the heat of the fever through a veil of as-yet unshed tears.  “Mal…p-please, don’ hurt Mal.  My fault…d-didn’ protect…kill me if you want jus’ don’ hurt him…please…”

“Oh Trip,” Malcolm whispered.  He leaned close to his friend’s ear, feeling the heat rising from his skin.  “Trip, he did not hurt me, he will not hurt me.  And you did your best to protect me, I was just too much of a stubborn fool to heed you.”

“You have my word as king that I will not harm him,” Jonathan added.  “And I would no more kill you than I would raise a blade to my own throat.”

For a time Tucker was soothed, but then the plaintive cries began again and so it went throughout the long night.  Finally, however, he went frightfully still and silent as the fever burned too hot for even his nightmares to linger and a fear fell on his friends despite the physician’s reassurances, but then as the rosy glow of dawn broke over the palace walls the fever broke as well and the false specter of death withdrew from the room in defeat.

 

Trip woke from a dream of dragging himself through an endlessly hot and baking desert to a strange room and a dry throat.  His side was painfully sore…had Bedouins attacked him, there in the desert?  And what of Jonathan?  He remembered his oldest friend being there with him for part of his trek, his strong arm and soothing voice helping him to struggle toward an oasis that never appeared.  A tear welled up in his eye and he sniffed at the ceiling.  Jonathan was lost to him, as was Malcolm and with him Travis.  He was alone…

He tried to sit up, needing to find water, and fell back with a groan as his side told him in no uncertain terms that getting out of bed was not something he should do.  Through the wave of pain he heard a rustle, though, followed by a troubled exclamation and then a hand touched his cheek.  “Trip?”

Trip’s eyes snapped back open at that worried voice and he saw bleary hazel-green orbs peering down at him with obvious concern.  His voice came out as a faint and painful rasp.  “J-jonathan?  What…”

“Hush, you need water.”  The strong hand lifted his head and when the rough rim of a cup touched his lips he drank, but his eyes remained fixed on the unlikely vision above him as cool liquid soothed the desert dryness in his throat.  “Better?”

Trip nodded, and his head was settled back onto the pillow with infinite care.  “Jonathan?”

The king nodded.  “Phlox said your brains might be scrambled for a time, the fever burned so high.  Yes, it’s me, Trip.”

Trip took a deep breath and winced, noticing absently that Jonathan winced with him.  His hand crept shaking over his side, feeling thick bandages there.  “Bedouins?”

Jonathan looked at him oddly for a moment, and then he threw back his head and laughed.  “Oh, so that’s where you thought you were!  No, Trip, there are no scimitar-wielding turbaned warriors in London right now; it was Lord Grath who hurt you, do you remember?  At the tourney day before yesterday, he tipped his lance and it took you just under your ribs.”

Trip thought about it…and then remembered and tried to sit up again.  “Malcolm!”

The king pushed him back down.  “Sleeping,” he assured his friend.  “Just beside you, see?”  He moved aside, and Trip could indeed see the knight asleep on top of the coverlet on the room’s other bed.  “He’d fallen asleep in his chair watching over you, Travis and Phlox and I moved him to a more comfortable spot.  He’s had a long few days.”

A slight frown creased Trip’s drawn features, and then he gasped and his eyes widened.  “You had him flogged, ‘cause of me…”

“Yes and no,” Jonathan corrected him, frowning himself; beneath the restraining hand he had on his friend’s chest he could feel the younger man’s heart pounding frantically, and Phlox had warned them all that Trip must be kept from upset for a time lest the fever return.  “Yes, I did, but I’d threatened the guard on pain of dismissal not to seriously harm him.  And no, it wasn’t because of you, not the way you’re thinking of it; I’d heard aught but good about Malcolm, and suddenly his father Lord Stewart appeared in my court demanding his right to disown him.  The only test I had to prove his honor as I believed it to be was to try his loyalty to you, Trip.”  He chuckled.  “I attempted to apologize to him yesterday, and he told me that ‘the king’s choice must always be the right one’.”

Trip just stared at him a moment…and then he laughed, holding his bandaged side against the pain of it.  “Mal…would say that,” he choked out.  “He…believes it, too.”

“I know.”  Jonathan covered his friend’s hand with his own.  “His loyalty is a match for yours.  I meant it when I told him a man such as he was wasted in the tourneys – and in the House of Reed.  That father of his is the most arrogant fool I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, how he managed to produce such a son is a mystery to me.  By his absence, no doubt.”

Trip nodded.  He started to speak but the words came out as a cough and Jonathan immediately pressed more water on him.  By the time the paroxysm had finished Trip was trembling and Phlox was there moving the king aside.  “Back with us, are we, Sir Charles?” the physician said.  “You should have awakened me, your majesty,” he scolded Jonathan lightly over his shoulder.  “Now, Sir Charles, how are you feeling?”

“Thirsty.”  Jonathan again offered the water, which Trip drank gratefully while the physician checked his wound.  By this time the commotion had awakened the room’s other occupants, and Trip smiled to see his other friend pad up behind the king, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.  “Mal.”

“You’re awake.”  Malcolm’s relief was boundless.  He slid into the seat he had earlier fallen to sleep in, smiling broadly.  “You seem to be in the habit of giving me frights these days, I believe London has a poor effect on you.”

“Jus’ bad luck,” Trip told him, holding back a chuckle; he was not ready to cause himself more pain at present.  “Or more of that impertinence you keep talkin’ about all the time.”

“No, handing out cheek isn’t your job any more,” was Malcolm’s reply.  “You’ve passed that duty over to Travis now.”

“He most certainly has.”  Travis had circled around to the other side of the bed, and at the physician’s direction was helping to gently prop Trip into a more upright position with pillows that had been set aside to that purpose.  “I’ll have to do it twice as much now.  Is that better, Sir Charles?”

Trip had squeezed his eyes shut against the pain of being shifted, but he nodded.  “Yeah, it’s fine, Travis.”  Blue eyes squinted open.  “But I’d rather you called me by the name you’ve always used.  I’d hate to think we’ve stopped bein’ friends just because you know somethin’ more about me than you did before.”

Travis made a face at him.  “I was trying to be polite in front of the king, Trip.”

“He knows m’name,” Trip replied, eyes closing again.  “Is there some reason…I needed to sit up?”

“Yes, you need nourishment,” Phlox told him.  “You left a good deal of blood behind on the field of honor and you’ve not taken in anything to replace it in two days – a few sips of water and a cup of medicinal tea are not enough to aid your recovery.  I’ve broth here, and you will take it all if you do not wish to remain in your bed longer than necessary.”

The physician suited actions to his words, taking a bowl of rich beef broth from the hearth and settling himself on the side of the bed to spoon it into his patient.  Not surprisingly, Trip protested when he saw the other man’s intent.  “Hey, I c’n feed myself…”

“I’m sure you’d try,” Travis told him before anyone else could comment, catching the hand that was trying to wave Phlox and his spoon away.  “But we already changed the bed and I’m not doing it again, so you can just let yourself be fed and save the mess you’d make of it for later when you can clean up after yourself.”

Everyone stared at Travis in disbelief, but then Trip smiled and another painful chuckle forced its way out of his body.  “That’s…more like it, Travis,” he said, squeezing the hand that was pinning his to the bed.  “All right.  I wouldn’t want to put you to more work than I already have.”

“I didn’t mind,” the squire assured him softly.  He sat down on Trip’s other side, still holding his hand.  “Now start eating, you want to be strong enough to attend the feast two days hence, do you not?” 

“Feast?”  But before Trip could ask further, Phlox had already gagged him with the spoon.  The former blacksmith’s embarrassment was clear to see, his pale skin flushing deeper with each spoonful or murmured word of encouragement when he balked, but he did not resist the attention and soon had emptied the bowl.  As soon as Travis had wiped his face Trip turned his head to look at the king and Malcolm.  “Shouldn’t you have already had the feast?  It was supposed to be the night after the last match.”

“Well, we were all rather too occupied that night to attend to it,” Jonathan told him, a faint, exasperated frown on his face.  “And I let it be known that I would need time to decide what to do about the outcome of the competition.  I’m afraid we were left without a clear champion.”

Trip sighed, rolling his eyes to meet Malcolm’s gray ones.  “Sorry, Mal.”

Malcolm snorted.  “And just what are you apologizing for, then?  Trying to save my honor?  Defeating Lord Grath with my lance, perhaps?  Or is it almost dying in my place that you want absolution for?”  The look on Trip’s face was almost comical, but Malcolm did not laugh.  “I owe you apology for that, you know; I knew the blighter was going to try to kill me with the king watching, I just didn’t tell you and Travis because I didn’t want the pair of you shadowing my every step.”  He took Trip’s other hand, feeling the faint tremor in it and pressing it gently.  “Thanks to you, I have rank of my own now and need not fear my father’s censure any more; that is worth far more than any winner’s purse or silly golden bauble.”

“If I had any part in freein’ you from the shadow of the House of Reed then I’m glad of it,” Trip told him.  “But most of that’s due to Jonathan.  All I did…was show up an’ make a mess of things.”

Malcolm started to protest, but the king gave him a look and he held his tongue.  “You weren’t the one who made a mess of things, Trip,” Jonathan told the wounded man firmly but not unkindly.  “You were trying to fix the mess the rest of us had made – and you did, although not in the way you intended and yet things worked out the better for it.”  He saw denial still in the pale face of his old friend and his irritation kindled; Jonathan moved Phlox out of the way and leaned over to grasp Trip’s shoulders, commanding his widening eyes and not letting them go.  “You listen to me, Charles Tucker the Third,” he snapped.  “I have sat here in England five years, mired in regret for my disloyalty to you and unable to make amends because your father and I drove you to exile yourself.  My heart like to have ceased beating when Malcolm called you by name at the tourney, stopping me from a course which most likely would have meant your death.  Twice…”  His voice broke, “twice in two nights I have feared you would die without saying if you could forgive me…as my father did.  He never believed you capable of dishonor, he was…ashamed of me, for the first time in my life and he died with that shame still between us.”

Trip’s blue eyes overflowed.  “I…when I heard he’d died,” he whispered, “I wanted to be here for you so bad, it just about killed me that I couldn’t.”  A shaking hand patted the older man’s arm.  “Was never nothin’ to forgive, you did what you thought was right.”

“No, I was a self-righteous fool, and jealous of you,” the king admitted softly, easing his hold and sitting on the side of the bed, his weariness evident.  “Part of me – the Devil’s own part – rejoiced in the thought that you had fallen from the grace that seemed to be your very birthright.  I had grown arrogant, full of the idea that someday I would be king, and I told myself your dishonor was the Lord’s own way of showing you your place, of punishing you for daring to pretend you were a better man than the heir to England’s throne.”  Jonathan sighed and dropped his head.  “It was me being taught a lesson instead, that pride goeth before a fall.  It is to my everlasting shame that it was I caused you to fall when the pride was mine.”

“Aw Jon…”  Trip with an effort pushed himself up to enfold his friend in a comforting embrace.  “You shouldn’t fret over somethin’ like this.  Any man is allowed a mistake or two, and you’re a fine king.  Your father would be proud.”

Jonathan accepted the easy forgiveness knowing he did not deserve it to be so simple, and silently vowed that he would not fail his friend again.  The arms holding him were shaking, though, and after a few long moments he took control and lowered his friend back down into his pillows.  Trip was paler than before and did not resist him, his breath stuttering slightly in his chest, but he still looked concerned and Jonathan hastened to reassure him.  “It’s all right, Trip.  Everything is all right now.”

Trip shook his head.  “It’s not, if you’re still beatin’ yourself up over it.”  He took a deep breath.  “Jonathan, I won’t say I didn’t miss my family, or you, or England these past years, but if I hadn’t left I would never have met Malcolm and Travis, and I wouldn’t have been apprenticed to old Benjamin an’ learned how to really run a forge an’ not just play in one.”

“Is _that_ what you were doing before Malcolm found you?”  The king wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or amused.  “You apprenticed yourself to someone?”

“Well I had to do somethin’,” Trip told him, frowning a little.  “I had to eat.  And he needed help, he was gettin’ too old to do the heavy work anymore – an’ he needed to eat too.  Stayed there with him until…” he took a deep breath, closing his eyes against the memory and a fresh flood of tears, “until a fever took him.  Buried him outside the forge under his favorite sittin’ place an’ then I moved on.  Didn’t want to stay there without him, it was his home.”

There was a lonely sound to Trip’s voice when he said ‘home’, and Jonathan winced; so much pain in that little word, and it spoke so much of what it had cost the younger man to exile himself – so much that Trip would never speak of to him, no matter how much he pressed.  But Jonathan could not leave that pain unaddressed, either.  “You’re home now, Trip,” he murmured, stroking his friend’s blond hair with a gentle hand.  “For good.”

He continued to stroke the younger man’s hair and speak soothingly until Trip fell back to sleep, and then he straightened with a sigh.  “Phlox?”

“I believe I told you not to upset him, your majesty,” the physician said mildly.  He examined the sleeping man again, nodding his approval when Travis used a cloth to clean the remnants of tears off Trip’s pale face and then laid it across his reddened eyes to cool them.  “But it seemed to have been a wound that needed draining, so I allowed it.  And he will be fine, in time.”  This time his look at Travis was a slight scowl, however.  “But certainly not in two days.”

Malcolm intervened on his squire’s behalf.  “He meant no harm, Doctor.”

“And what harm would it do Trip to attend the feast?” the king wanted to know.

“He needs rest, and to regain his strength,” Phlox told them.  “And he needs to avoid excitement.”

“I know Trip,” Jonathan maintained, frowning at the physician.  “He was never one to miss any sort of celebration, and to exclude him from this one would do him more harm than you know.”

“I agree with his majesty,” Malcolm chimed in.  “We simply can’t leave him up in his room for this, it would be cruel – not to mention he would be like to try to sneak out at the first opportunity anyway and do himself even more harm.  I can set Travis to watch him…”

“We’ve seen the efficacy of that arrangement,” Phlox snorted.  “I seem to recall telling him to keep the man to his bed two full days at least the night before they came to the palace on foot.  But I also take your point; Sir Charles does not need to suffer any further distress at present.”  He sighed.  “Very well, he may attend – but arrangements must be made.  He is not to exert himself any further than conversing with a well-wisher or lifting a glass, so he must have a comfortable place to sit and we should all watch to make sure he does not leave it.”

“And he will try,” the king agreed.  “Sitting idle is not his way, it never has been.”

“You could command him to stay where he is put, your majesty,” Travis ventured.

Jonathan laughed.  “Would that it could be that simple,” he said.  “But when his restlessness overcomes his weakness, we will be watching and keep him in his place.”  He winked at Travis.  “With irons, if necessary.”

 

Irons turned out not to be necessary.  A chaise plentiful with cushions was provided for Trip in the main hall, and it was a sign of how poorly he was still feeling even after two days of rest that he allowed himself to be settled on it with only a token protest; he felt well enough, however, to order Travis to attend Malcolm, citing that servants were plentiful and if he wanted for anything he had only to raise his voice or clap his hands.  Malcolm and the king had shared a laugh over that, knowing Trip would be more like to attempt to get up and service his own needs than he would to summon a servant in such a manner, and Jonathan had consequently given instructions to his headman that Sir Charles’ needs were to be attended to during the feast without his having to make them known.

As feasts went, the gathering in the grand hall that night was more subdued than might have been expected; the king had expected that, though, and was prepared to correct it.  Once the serious eating was done he stood up and called for quiet.  “This has been a tourney that will be long remembered,” he told the waiting guests.  “But it should be remembered for the true events and not wild rumor, and to this point tonight I have heard much of the latter and little enough of the former.  It displeases me greatly to hear my nobles gossiping like village goodwives milling about in a market square, and so you will listen now to the true tale and make an end to all the false.”

Jonathan cleared his throat.  “It begins not two days past but five long years ago, when a duplicitous lord sought to attach himself to a noble house by gaining the heir as his son-in-law.  To this end he set his daughter to toy with the affections of the eldest son of the House of Tucker, Sir Charles the Third, and when the young heir finally and with certainty expressed his disinclination to make formal agreement between them they began to spread the story that he had dishonored the lady and gotten her with child.  In order to spare his bloodline’s honor, but not being willing to attach such vipers to his family, Sir Charles fled not only his home but his country and vanished into anonymity abroad.  And so when the girl and her father were exposed in their deceit there was no finding him and those that knew and loved him were left only to grieve as though he were dead.  For such it was he might have been in his honorably adopted exile, and they would not have known it.”

“Somewhere near a year later,” he continued after taking a drink from his goblet, “another lord’s son left his home in England and went abroad, this one to be a knight and follow the tourney circuit although his father’s wishes were against it entirely.  Sir Malcolm adopted a wandering blacksmith he found on a country road in France and befriended him, and the man remained in his service for the next three years.  Sir Malcolm was and is known as a man of high honor, and it won him the unswerving loyalty of his blacksmith, a loyalty which was put to the test when they arrived in London for the championship.  Sir Charles, known to his master only as Trip, the blacksmith, did not know that his name had been cleared or that his friends and family would rejoice to find him alive; he feared rather that were he to be recognized it would reflect badly on the man he served and so was careful to conceal himself from any eyes that might know him.”

“Sir Malcolm, on the other hand, wished to win back his place within his own family and hoped to bring to his old home a fine and noble wife, the proud lady who had chosen him as her champion in the tourneys.  But the same sort of vipers who had run Sir Charles out of England had also marked the knight for their sport, and when the trap intended to break his heart sprung and devastated his will to compete Sir Charles stepped in himself to spare his friend’s honor.  Little did he know he would be saving his very life as well, as the other competitor in the match had unbenknownst to him pledged himself to kill Sir Malcolm in my presence that very day.  Disguised in Sir Malcolm’s armor, Sir Charles rode in his place against Lord Grath and won, but in doing so received the end of the spiked lance Grath was employing in his side.  Not knowing him for who he was, I ordered him taken according to the law to be placed in the stocks until sunset and it was then that Sir Malcolm defied my order and demanded that he go in his friend’s place.  He convinced me, and I gave him leave to stay with his noble blacksmith until the next morning that he might not die alone should his wound prove to be a mortal one.”

Jonathan waved a hand at Malcolm, who was obviously highly embarrassed by the tale being told.  “I knew of Sir Malcolm by his reputation, and trusted him to do as he had promised.  He is an honorable man, moreso than almost any other I have had fortune to meet in my life, and promptly after bells he came to me full ready to be severely punished.  But he did not know that I had recognized the missing son of the House of Tucker when he called him by name, and as no punishment was necessary after testing his loyalty I instead gave him rank equal to his sterling nature and commanded him to join my house.  I had sent for his men, but ere my man could find them they had arrived at the palace; Sir Charles had dragged himself from his bed to save his friend from the king’s justice, believing full well that once I set eyes on him the consequences would be lifted from his friend and laid upon him instead.”  He winked at Trip, who was blushing as well.  “He was much surprised to find me glad to see him, as was Lord Malcolm amazed to find that he had employed not only a fellow noble but a lost friend of the king.  I present them both to you now: Lord Malcolm and Sir Charles, fine men of honor and courage who both hold my favor – and to Lord Malcolm, my undying gratitude for restoring the friend of my boyhood to me after he was so long lost.  A toast, to Lord Malcolm!”

The hall erupted with cheers – some of which were more for the ending of the tale than the tale itself, but theirs sounded no less than the others and so the thought behind them was of no great importance.  The hall lost its hush after that, and although the king shook his head over the behavior of them – “like old women clustering around the village well,” he’d complained to Malcolm – he was yet glad that the air had changed for the better.  And he had been highly amused to watch Phlox swoop in and scatter some of the younger and most determined ladies like a flock of chickens when they descended on Trip with the idea that he should certainly be made to dance with them.  Jonathan approached his friend after the physician had gently but firmly left to escort one particularly insistent lady back to her father’s care and smiled down at him.  “I do believe that one would have dragged you.”

“I think she had it in her mind,” Trip agreed.  “But at least I have a defendin’ angel in the person of your Byzantine physician, poor Mal is on his own.”  He gestured across the hall to where Malcolm stood attempting to be polite to his own fluttering flock of old women and chickens, then saluted with his goblet when the young lord glanced his way.  Malcolm responded with a look that was not quite a rolling of his eyes, and Trip chuckled.  “I hope the one Phlox just dragged off me don’t try to latch on to him.”

The king snorted.  “You’re most likely right in likening her to a leech, but once her father hears of it she’ll be lucky not to be whipped – a most proud man, Lord Klannagan, and he has little patience for nonsense.”  He smiled slightly.  “He was most insistent that I should allow him to pursue Lord Grath and drag him back to face justice.  And I might have allowed it, had I not feared that he in his…displeasure would see punishment meted out before Grath ever appeared before me and then look to me to assign more.”

Trip shuddered and reached for his goblet; the memory of the spike on Grath’s tipped lance piercing his armor was still too fresh for him to think on it without reaction.  “Can’t imagine he took that too well, but it’s not like you as king could have let him do it with your sanction.”

“No, that I couldn’t – although I would have liked to,” Jonathan chuckled.  “These Highlanders practice their honor seriously and punish its lapse more harshly than we do, he might have taught Grath a lesson worth learning.”

“Or he might’ve killed him in the teachin’ of it,” Trip cautioned, and then he sighed.  “Have to wonder how far lost to sense the man was, though, to take a rivalry of the lance so far as to scheme to kill his opponent with the king watchin’.”

“I have wondered that as well,” was the king’s reply, his eyes straying again to his newest noble, who was now attempting to fend off the advances of a dowager old enough to be his mother.  “The man might bear watching in the future, if he comes out of hiding long enough to be seen.  Shall I go rescue Malcolm from Lady Feezal, do you think?”

“Think he’d most likely appreciate that,” Trip told him.  “Just don’t shift her over here, I’m not in any position to get away from her.”

Jonathan laughed and patted his shoulder.  “And she would take advantage, she’s always liked you – and your father before you.  Never fear, though; even if I cannot move her in a more suitable direction your defending angel will soon be returning to your side.  To the rescue I go, then.”

Trip relaxed a little deeper into his cushions once the king had left his side, allowing some of the true weariness he was feeling to surface.  Perhaps when Phlox returned he could prevail upon the physician to help him back to his room, back to the soft bed he was beginning to want in spite of his pleasure at being in company again.  Until then, he would watch the crowd that filled the hall and allow their antics to amuse him.

Watching was just beginning to bore him and Trip was thinking seriously about attempting the long trek back to his bed on his own when he felt a strong hand laid on his shoulder.  He turned his head with a tired smile, expecting Travis or another solicitous serving girl…and his already pale complexion faded to alabaster when he beheld instead the stern-faced lord standing behind him.  Trip would have bolted to his feet had he been able, but his ill-advised attempt was quickly forestalled by the restraining hands of the king’s physician.  “I think not, Sir Charles,” Phlox admonished him gently, motioning for a servant to bring a fresh goblet of warmed wine which he immediately pressed on the startled man.  “Drink that, and then I will allow you to speak with your father briefly before you return to your bed.”

Trip obediently drank deeply from the goblet, and a hint of color crept back into his cheeks.  His wide blue eyes turned again to the older man, who had moved to kneel beside him and whose sternness could now be seen as deep concern.  “F-father?”

“Son,” the lord replied.  He took one of Trip’s trembling hands into his own, pressing it gently.  “Oh my son, can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive… _you_?”  Trip lost what color he’d regained.  “What…what is there to forgive?” he stammered.  “You acted to preserve our family’s honor…”

“I all but destroyed it in my overweening pride,” his father corrected.  “I took the word of strangers over that of my own blood; the king himself, God rest his soul, reviled me for my error and I had little favor with him from thence onward until his death though we had once been friends.  His son restored our family’s place, but he could not give me that which I wanted most – my eldest son, whom we had both so grievously wronged.”

“You had cause…”

“I had no cause to doubt your word,” Lord Charles interrupted gravely.  “And yet I did, a fact which cannot be erased from our history.”  He sighed, shaking his head.  “Your mother’s last thoughts were of you, her last request one I could not answer.”

“Mother is…”  A roaring filled Trip’s ears, washing away his father’s voice and taking his vision with it, and it was only when he felt strong hands pulling him up out of his seat that he came back to awareness of the world around him.  Malcolm was there on his one side and Travis on the other, both of them wearing identical expressions of concern. 

The king was there as well, a most disapproving look on his face as he addressed a shamefaced Lord Charles.  “I agreed to let you attend tonight, but no more than that – and now you have seen why,” Jonathan was saying in a low, stern voice.  “I know you have much to say, but there is time and you must go slowly, for his sake.”

“I’m okay,” Trip murmured, doing his best to pull away from his friends’ support.  Malcolm and Travis did not allow it, though, and he gave up with a sigh.  “It’s…all right, Jonathan.”

The king looked as though he thought differently, but it was Phlox who spoke it.  “You have had more than enough excitement for one night, Sir Charles,” the physician admonished quietly.  “Escort him to his bed, please,” he addressed Malcolm and Travis.  “I will be up shortly, after I have spoken with the king.  Go on with you, now, while he can still keep his feet.”

Trip held back.  “But my father…”

“Will still be here on the morrow.  I dare say he will not be leaving without speaking to you again, as you are the sole reason he is here,” Malcolm teased him as they slowly made their way out of the hall.  “And I must thank you for the finely timed swoon which is allowing me to escape the clutches of this crowd.”

“I didn’t…”  Trip grimaced, sighed, and dropped his head.  “Well, it was just a little one.”

“You had more than enough reason,” his friend assured him.  “No one will think the less of you for it, knowing what news had just been imparted to you and in such a manner.”  They were ascending the stairs now, the noise of the feast falling behind them, and Malcolm’s gray eyes twinkled with mischief as he slanted a glance up at his former blacksmith.  “The Lady Feezal, in particular, was quite concerned for your well being and desirous of rushing to your aid.  It appears your father is now grown too long in the tooth for her liking, but she had much to say about how much you resemble him as a young man.  I have to say I found it rather offensive, though, that she was so full of praise for your boyish charms while she was at the same time trying to pet and flatter me into what I can only think of as an unnatural liaison.”

Trip shuddered.  “I’d have to agree with you there.”  He frowned down at Malcolm.  “I thought Jonathan got over there in time to rescue you?”

“He did make the attempt,” the young lord replied.  “But she ensnared him as well, so your need for assistance delivered the pair of us from a fate worse than death.”

“Happy to be of service, then,” Trip chuckled, wincing slightly when his mirth pulled at his wound.  “Let’s just hope she don’t know what room we have, she’d probably have an eye for Travis too an’ then where would we be?”

Malcolm laughed, pleased that he had been able to even for a few moments distract his friend from the black news he had just received.  “Running for our very lives.”

 

Meanwhile, Phlox had drawn the king and Lord Charles off to one side of the hall and was speaking seriously.  “Your majesty, I told you…”

“And I did not fail to repeat your cautions,” Jonathan interrupted him.  “Lord Charles, your son was grievously wounded just four days past, which even if I had not told you of it is common enough knowledge all over London at present.  A slip of the tongue I can understand and forgive…”

“I cannot,” Phlox snapped.  “I was there at his side, your majesty, that was no accidental telling – it was a most abrupt and callous means of informing Sir Charles that his mother had died, cloaked in an illusion of musing thoughtlessness.  Why, sir, would you hurt your son so?”

“It was not my intention to do him harm,” Lord Charles defended himself.  “But I have much to tell him of and time in short supply, I must soon be returning home…”

“You will return home when I give you leave to do so,” the king informed him, looking displeased about something more than the topic of discussion.  “I refuse to allow you to expunge the details of the past five years in one rough telling – and to that end, I forbid you to speak with your son again unless I or Lord Malcolm or my protective physician are present to see that you do not ‘slip’ again.”

The lord looked not so happy with this, but he bowed and nodded.  “So his majesty commands.  Tomorrow morning…”

“Tomorrow _afternoon_ ,” Phlox corrected immediately, with a nod of agreement from the king.  “I will send someone for you when it is time.  And now I will go see how much damage your needless haste has done.  With your permission, your majesty?”

“Go,” Jonathan told him, and then returned his attention to Lord Charles.  “I _will_ be present tomorrow,” he repeated sternly.  “Think carefully on your words to that end, for I will not look kindly on another ‘accident’.”

The lord sighed.  “My time is short…”

“I say it is not.”  Jonathan’s frown was a serious thing.  “Do keep in mind, Charles of Tucker, that _my_ word is your law – you will put no other before it.  Now as you are no longer  occupied,why don’t you make yourself useful to me; go and occupy the Lady Feezal for a time that she might not prey upon the young men.”

Lord Charles made a face like to a man swallowing a lemon, but he nodded and bowed again.  “As you command, your majesty.”

 

Trip was sitting up in his bed and playing at chess with Travis when his father came in late the next morning.  He greeted the older man with a pleasant smile.  “Good mornin’, Father.  You’re just in time to save me losin’ yet another game to Travis here.”

Lord Charles managed a weak smile.  “Well then, my timing is good.  I came to speak with you, son, there are…things we must discuss and I do not feel they can wait.”

Travis finished setting the chessboard aside and rose to his feet.  “I will leave you now,” he said, bowing.  “If you have need of me you have only to…”

“Stay, Travis,” Trip told him.  “I trust you as though you were family to me, just like Malcolm does.  An’ I know you have duties aplenty in this very room that you’ve been neglectin’ in the interest of keeping me from going mad from boredom.  There’s nothin’ that can be said here which I would regret you hearing.”

Travis acknowledged his order with another bow and a smile, and then set himself to working at the other end of the chamber.  Lord Charles looked uncertain of the arrangement but nevertheless took a seat on the side of the bed, one age-knobbed hand resting on his son’s blanket-covered leg.  “You feel better for a night’s rest then, my son?”

Trip waved the question aside with a languid hand that shook only slightly.  “The physician ordered me to stay abed until noon an’ Jonathan said he’d have me in irons if I disobeyed – that’s the only reason for my laziness this mornin’.  I’m fine, Father.”

“Good, good.”  The lord’s smile became more relaxed, if not warmer.  “Son, I…Charles, you must understand, we could not find you, we thought you dead…”

“So you designated one of my sisters’ children as your heir?”  Trip smiled.  “I’d expected so, Father, you don’t need to apologize.  If it weren’t for my accidental reunion with the king, I would still be missin’.  And our House must be protected by the lines of succession, no matter which route they run.  I am only happy to know that I can once more see my family again, visit my home and kiss my sisters – and perhaps even dandle my small replacement on my knee and tell him the stories you told to me when I was small.”

“That is…unlikely, nay, even impossible,” Lord Charles told him, with the dogged air of a man who must see through an important though unpleasant duty.  “I did indeed change the lines that Elizabeth’s first born son would be heir to the House of Tucker should anything happen to me, but that change I knew you would understand.  The news I must impart…is that you may not return home.”

Trip’s smile vanished, and across the room Travis stilled and stared.  “I…I can’t…but why?  I don’t seek to displace the child!”

“I know,” the lord soothed.  “I know, my son.  But your sister’s husband will not be convinced, and he fears for the babe.”

“He believes I would…”  Trip’s face was pale as a white napkin.  “I would never hurt a child, much less my own nephew!  Didn’t you and my sister tell him…”

“We did, but he will not listen.”  Lord Charles shook his head and sighed.  “He has lived in fear of your reappearance these past years, and the summons I received from the king was like to the realization of a nightmare for him.  You must understand, he seeks only to protect his child’s life.”

“From me.”  The younger man shook his head.  “Can I not meet with my sisters away from home, then?  Could not arrangements be made, maybe one of the summer houses…”

“I am sorry, no,” the lord told him regretfully.  “The lands of our blood are forbidden to you, and should any of our house be found to have met with you in secret he would doubtless believe them to be in sympathy with you.  Such a schism in our family must not occur.”

Trip swallowed.  “I may not visit…Mother, then?”  His father’s headshake answered him, and he sank back into his pillows as though his spine had turned to sand.  “This…this I didn’t expect,” he whispered.

“I know, and again, I am sorry,” Lord Charles murmured in return.  He stood up.  “I knew your first thought would be to return home, and I felt you should know…the impossibility of that as soon as possible, for kindness sake.  Will you remain in England?”

“I…don’t know.”  Trip swallowed again, this time with more difficulty, and his voice shook.  “Had Mal…had my master not been given new rank we should have been back across the Channel by now and lookin’ for a place to winter, but he’ll no longer have need of me now that he’s in service to the king.  I’ll maybe need to search a bit to find another…situation that suits me.”

“I wish you luck in your searching, then,” the lord said solemnly.  “I may be here for only a short time more, but perhaps we can share some time together ere I must return home?”

“Perhaps.”  Trip shook himself.  “May I…may I know the name of the one whose fear bans me from my family?” 

“Your sister’s husband is Lord Sebastian,” his father told him, and quickly added, “Do not think to approach him and change his mind, my son, his fears are firmly set.”

Blue eyes flickered up to him.  “You’ll forgive my presumption, Fa… _m’lord_ , but how is it that this son-in-law dictates to the master of our House?”

In the background Travis winced, hearing the subordinate position his friend had returned himself to with his manner of address, but the lord appeared not to notice it.  “I am an old man,” was Lord Charles’ stiff reply.  “Someone had to take the running of things in hand, and I chose the father of my heir.  He is within his rights to command our house as he sees fit; be grateful he allowed me to answer the king’s summons.”

“Allowed…”  Trip sank deeper into his pillows.  “I…understand.  I…apologize for puttin’ you in such a position, m’lord.  It was good of you to come, and I thank you for lettin’ me know of my changed status.  You have my word I won’t try to return to my former home or contact any of those who were once my kin.”

“I knew you would understand,” Lord Charles said, appearing relieved; Travis had to wonder how the man could stand there and smile when he had just all but disowned his son.  Perhaps age and guilt had addled his mind?  The squire had to wonder.  “I will leave you now, that you may rest.  You are not looking well at all, perhaps you are not so recovered as you thought yourself to be.”

“Maybe not, but I will be fine.  You need not concern yourself,” Trip told him.  “If I don’t see you again before you return home, it was…good to see you this one last time.”

The lord leaned over and patted his shoulder, not appearing to notice his son’s slight flinch at the familiar touch.  “It was good to see you as well, and to know that you were alive gladdened my heart.  I am sorry that the news I had to pass on was not the pleasantest, but I am certain you will do well wherever you go from here.”  He straightened, still smiling, and moved toward the door.  “Goodbye, my son.”

Trip flinched again.  “Goodbye, m’lord Tucker,” he all but whispered.

Travis waited until the oblivious lord was well out of the room before he cautiously approached his friend, but Trip did not acknowledge him; his blue eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the ceiling, although Travis thought it was not wood and stone that he saw.  “Trip?”

There was no response, and the squire could not be certain the other man had even heard him.  He called his name again, waved a nervous hand before Trip’s face, even shook him, all to no avail.  Travis was frightened now, and unsure of what to do.  Phlox had ridden off that morning to attend to a patient in the countryside, and both the king and his own master were out of the palace as well.  He did not think it wise to leave Trip, but he also knew that in this  matter his own ability to help was not so much as would be needed.  Malcolm, he decided with that thought, he must find Malcolm and tell him, and then he could look for the king, who could then send for Phlox if he deemed it necessary.  Yes, he would fetch Malcolm first.

Travis gently shook his friend again and twice more called his name, but his hope was not fulfilled.  “I must find our master,” he told the unresponsive man.  “I will return with him and he will fix this, Trip.  And even if he cannot we will stand by you, I swear it.”  And then with a final shake and a heavy heart, Travis fled the room in search of Malcolm.

 

Some time later Trip blinked, and then again, and as he looked around at the empty room Travis’ name died on his lips.  Pushing himself upright, feeling as though his body weighed a thousand pounds and his head had been stuffed with raw wool, he saw that he was truly alone.  But Travis had been here, he had told the squire he might stay…

Realization hit him with the force of a blow, not lessened any for being mostly false.  Jonathan had known, he must have known, and had sent Lord Charles to speak his piece at a time when Malcolm was away lest the young lord’s loyalty move him to interfere in the situation to his own detriment; Maison de Roseau, as Malcolm had taken to calling his fledgling house over the past few days, could ill afford to touch such a scandal lest its fragile new honor be sullied.

But such a thing would not stay secret for long in gossip-laden London, and then the problem would rear its ugly head again and Malcolm’s honor would force him to act.  Unless…

Trip dragged himself out of his bed reluctantly but with the knowledge that he had no choice if he were to save his friend from himself – and himself from the shame of being ‘kept’ by Jonathan, a rankless and positionless burden on the king’s household.  Some of his reluctance stemmed from the knowledge that he would most likely never sleep in a down-stuffed bed again, the life of a wandering blacksmith not lending itself to such luxuries.  The clothing folded for him posed the same difficulty; fine, rich fabrics such as he had missed having against his skin in his exile, but far to good for the station he was now returning to.

He found his own clothes amongst Travis’ things, and sentimentally took to wear those which reminded him of the first set of clothing the squire had shared with him those three years ago when they’d first met.  Dressing in the rough, simple garments would have been a trial had his body not been all but numb to the pain, his heart and mind occupied instead with their own boundless ache, but Trip managed to attire himself neatly enough and then rummaged out a sack to carry away a few of his possessions in as well as a clean tunic and a few apples from the well-filled bowl that had been provided for he and his friends.  Friends…another thing he had grown accustomed to and now could not keep.

After managing with difficulty to pull on woolen leggings and his walking boots, Trip found himself left only with the problem of money.  By rights a full third of their winter nest egg belonged to him, earned as it had been by his own efforts in the forge, but even a third amounted to a considerable sum for a knight to have on his person, much less a peasant.  To be seen with so much coin would invite dangerous suspicion which could lead to robbery or even arrest, perhaps even to murder.  Sighing, Trip dug around the gold in the chest to get at the smaller coins, taking a goodly handful of pennies for his bag along with a single gold piece to tuck into his belt.  It would be enough to sustain him until he was fit to do smith-work again.  His worn cloak would serve as blanket enough…he cast a longing look back at the well-covered bed before shaking himself; such was not for him, not any longer.  Lord Sebastian had seen to that.

He was lucky, Trip mused as he carefully made his way out of the room and down the back stairs, that his brother-in-law had not solved the problem of his reappearance in the simpler, more traditional manner.  Lord Sebastian may have dealt him this second crushing loss, banished him a second time into dishonored exile, but at least the man had left him alive to suffer it and for that Trip thought he should be grateful.  “Where there’s life, there’s hope,” he whispered to the stone steps.  He would have hope, as his mother had taught him early in his life; perhaps not now, not even for some time to come until the sharp hurt of once again being forced to leave those he loved had faded to a duller ache, but someday…someday he might again believe that his long road could end in happiness.

 

Travis had found Malcolm after a too-long frantic search, and had spilled out his tale in a rush that washed a good deal of color from his master’s face and then replaced it with ruddy anger; Malcolm would have been sorely displeased to know that for a moment he looked very like his father.  They had at once sought out the king, and then the three of them had raced back to the palace to find the chambers Trip had shared with Malcolm empty and the bed cold.  The king had left Malcolm and Travis to search the palace for the missing man while he himself stalked back to the small study he used for private business and ordered the servants to bring Lord Charles to him at once.

It was some time before the lord arrived, shaking in his skin and looking shamefaced and defiant all at the same time.  Jonathan gave him no quarter.  “You don’t listen well, do you Lord Charles?” he snapped.  “I told you not to discuss the changed lines of succession with Trip until I could be present and what did you do?  You went to him while Lord Malcolm and I were both busy elsewhere, disobeying my order, and told him…”  The king hit the table with his fist, scowling.  “And told him he had no place, no home and no family.  Two weeks ago he could have borne that, thinking the lies were still believed.  Now…now you’ve burdened him with the knowledge that even though the truth is known his sister’s husband is so fearful of him killing a puling infant that you will not allow him on your lands to pay his respects at his own mother’s grave, much less visit the family he has been lost to for five years due to _our_ foolishness.”

A servant nervously hurried in before the other man could answer, Malcolm right behind him.  “Your majesty, Lord Malcolm…”

“Trip is gone,” Malcolm interrupted him, addressing the king directly and sparing a scowl for Lord Charles.  “Travis asked after him all over the palace, and one of the serving girls in the kitchen was finally able to tell him Trip begged a waterskin of her long before we returned.  He told her there was already a blacksmith in the castle and he had to be off to find new employment.”

“He probably believes he’s lost his rank as well as his birthright,” Jonathan ground out.  “Did Travis tell you all this tragedy?”

“Yes, my lord.”  Malcolm bowed slightly.  “Permission to go after him, your majesty?  He’s still not well.”

“Granted,” the king agreed without hesitation.  “But wait!” he said when Malcolm would have at once rushed from the room.  “He won’t want to return to the palace and being idle doesn’t suit him even if he is unwell.  I granted you lands to go with your title, take Trip and your squire and go see about them.  I have heard the holdings have been poorly kept due to their location.”

“Location?”  Malcolm took the parchment the king handed him and unrolled it to see a newly-drawn map.  It took several minutes for him to accept what he was looking at, and when he did his face filled with astonishment.  “This is…this was…”

“Once a belonging of the house of Reed, yes,” Jonathan told him.  “But it is landlocked, and Lord Stewart in his prejudice has neglected it shamefully.  I trust you will do better.”

Malcolm found his voice.  “I will do my best, my lord.  I know somewhat of these lands, they were a favorite retreat of my grandmother and I believe it was in her chambers there that she died.  I thank you for returning this portion of my heritage to me.”

“You are most welcome, Malcolm.”  The king opened a heavy box with a key that hung at his waist and tossed a small but heavy pouch to the younger man.  “Part of the gold that belongs with the estate, you will doubtless need it if things are as bad as I suspect.  When you return to report to me of your holdings we will have a more thorough accounting.  I give you a fortnight to make your inspection and return.”

“In a fortnight I will return,” was Malcolm’s reply.  He bowed deeply.  “I will go prepare for our journey, then – quickly prepare, Trip is in no condition to be out walking the roads and Travis says he took barely enough of his earnings from the forge to feed himself, much less obtain care or comfort.”

“Send your squire to the stables when you are done with him,” Jonathan instructed him.  “I would pick out a horse for Trip from among my own mounts and I will leave the animal to your Travis’ care until the two of you deliver it to its new master.”

“Thank you, my lord.”  Malcolm bowed again, spared one more glare for Lord Charles and then hurried out.  He had preparations to make.

Jonathan nodded to himself, and then his own frown found the wide-eyed lord again.  “Lord Charles of the house of Tucker, you may consider yourself and your new heir’s family to be out of favor once again.  You and yours will not be welcome at court until you have found a way to repair the damage you have done this day, and be warned that although plain apology would doubtless be sufficient to earn forgiveness from your good-hearted son, it will most assuredly not be enough to earn mine.”

The old man trembled.  “My lord, I had not thought Charles would flee your protection…”

“He did not flee, he removed himself,” the king corrected sharply.  “Your thoughtless and ill-timed ‘honesty’ changed his place here from friend to burden and he reacted out of the depths of his own honor just as he did five years ago.  Remove yourself from my presence at once and go home, Lord Charles – and give thanks to God that your son has a friend so loyal as Lord Malcolm, who will no doubt offer him place on his estate in exchange for help in managing it.”

Lord Charles hesitated.  “Your majesty…you will tell me if he…”

“I shall, because it is the Christian thing to do and no other reason,” Jonathan all but sneered.  “You are still his father, however little you deserve that title.  But understand me,” and his expression became so forbidding that the lord did well not to cower away from the blackness of it, “if I find that you have taken the knowledge I give you and used it to curry favor with that base and cowardly serpent you bound your eldest daughter to, there will be a reckoning like to the wrath of God falling upon the House of Tucker.  Now go!  Before I decide to give you a taste of divine retribution for your temerity in asking something of me after I had dismissed you.”

The old lord fairly ran from the room, and after giving him time to clear the stairs the king left the room as well.  One of his favorite walking horses was a fine blood mare of gentle temper and easy gait who yet could run swiftly if her rider required it, and he thought she would make a perfect mount for Trip.  And he would pass along a message through Malcolm’s loyal squire for his friend as well, one that would set his mind to rest on the nature of things between them. 

 

After some fruitless searching the young lord and his squire finally spotted a recumbent figure beside the road, leaning propped against a tree and appearing to be asleep.  They approached slowly, and when they were still a horse-length away Trip stiffened and opened his eyes; this close, they could see that he was pale and tired, and his face filled with dismay as he saw who had come upon him.  Malcolm stopped Travis dismounting with a look and stayed on his own horse as well, keeping his posture as casual as though Trip had been waiting for them.  “You’ve led us a merry chase today.” 

Trip didn’t move.  “Did you ride out here because you found out what happened, or did the king order you after me?”

“Neither,” Malcolm answered.  It was the truth; it was he who had proposed coming to look for his friend, not the king.  “And I won’t deny that I know what happened, or that I am still full to bursting with anger over it, but I am on my way to visit… my estate for the first time.”  He swallowed his pride.  “I was hoping I could count on you to help me, Trip.”

Tucker looked suspicious for a moment, but then he saw the expression on Malcolm’s face and suspicion became concern.  He pushed himself away from the tree trunk and sat upright with a bare wince.  “Didn’t Jonathan…”

“I didn’t ask,” Malcolm admitted quietly.  “After all the playing about I’ve been doing over the name of my House, how could I tell him he’d just given such an honor to a man who didn’t know what to do with it?  I’d counted on your help, as I was sure you would know about holding lands whereas I know only ships and ports, but I didn’t anticipate that you’d…”

“Just run away and leave you,” the other man all but whispered.  He pushed himself painfully to his feet.  “Oh Mal, I’m so sorry.  I never thought…of course I’ll help you, you know I’ll help you.  When do we leave?”

Malcolm smiled.  “I’m on my way now, as a matter of fact.  Care to join Travis and I once again, Sir Charles?”

Tucker froze where he stood.  “I have no home, Mal, no place…”

“You’ve a place at court, any time you wish it,” Travis corrected.  “The king was most distressed when he found you’d left without a word to anyone.”

“And he was most upset with your father,” Malcolm added gravely.  “Your pardon, Trip, but I think age and guilt have addled the man’s wits.  But if the court is not to your liking at present, you must know that you will always have a place with me, estate or no estate.”

Tucker cocked his head.  “As a blacksmith?”

Malcolm smiled.  “As a friend – you taught me the meaning of the word, after all.  Now will you ride or shall we stand around in the road a bit longer while the day whiles away?  My new holdings are said to be in poor repair, but I would much prefer whatever bed is available there to sleeping on the hard ground an extra night.  And if we push on, I believe we may even spare ourselves the ground tonight at an inn along the way.”  He shook the small, heavy pouch at his belt to make it jingle.  “Perhaps a hot meal as well, and new ale to go with it?”

“I’d not say no to the ale, or the bed,” Trip agreed slowly.  “But as to the horse…”

Travis pulled the horse he’d been leading forward.  “Here, compliments of the king – he said you had lost yours long ago, and it was his pleasure to replace it with one of his own as he had mounts to spare.”  He winked.  “He also sent you word to be cautious where you choose to swim, as there are many about the countryside who are ill-clad.”

Trip just stared at him, and then he threw back his head and laughed.  “Lady bless him for remembering,” he said, wincing again as his mirth pulled at his half-healed side.  “Could I beg assistance in mounting from one of you, then?  If you wait for me, we may indeed be here beside the road a long while.”

“That we may, putting your insides back where they belong,” Malcolm observed dryly, forestalling Travis from dismounting with a gesture and descending from his horse himself.  “A few more days at the castle would not have done you harm, you know – but I understand why you did not want to wait.”  He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, looking into his eyes.  “I understand all too well.  And as you stood beside me, I will stand beside you.  So I swear to you on the honor of Maison de Roseau, which is now the honor of me and all I claim as mine.”

“And that’s more than honor enough,” Trip replied, blinking to clear away the moisture gathering in his eyes.  “We should go, then, we have a House to see about an’ things to set right.”

Malcolm smiled and led him to his horse.  “That we do, my friend,” he said.  “That we do.”


End file.
